THE  WHITE 
DARKNESS 


lAWRENCEMOTT 


The  White   Darkness 


UNIT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS 


"Ha,  Elsie!  "  he  gasped 


(See  page  85.) 


AND    OTHER    STORIES    OF 
THE    GREAT    NORTHWEST 


BY 

LAWRENCE  MOTT 

Author  of  "Jules  of  the   Great  Heart"     • 
ILLUSTRATED    BY 

FRANK    E.    SCHOONOISER    AND    CYRUS    CUNEO 


NEW    YORK 

THE    OUTING    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 
1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 
THE  CENTURY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 
HARPER  AND  BROTHERS 

COPYRIGHT,  1905  AND  1906,  BY 
THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 

THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  Eng. 


All  rights  reserved 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  WHITE  DARKNESS i 

JAQUETTE 17 

.  THE  SILVER  Fox 35 

LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 53 

FRIENDS         . 77 

WILKINSON'S  CHANCE      .......     93 

^THE  CURRENT  OF  FEAR 117 

1  ONE  OF  THREE       ........   131 

A  A  DAY'S  WORK  IN  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE        .         .         .    149 
JEAN  BAPTISTE'S  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT      .         .         .         .    171 

.  THE  BLACK  THING  OF  HATCHET  LAKE     .         .         .         .191 

WA-GUSH        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .211 

*   FOLLETTE       ...  .  .  225 

'  THE  INDIAN'S  VENGEANCE       ......   245 

v  THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE    .         .  .  263 

THE  LIGHT  OF  A  MATCH          ......  283 


2131596 


Illustrations 

"HA,  ELSIE!"  HE  GASPED     ....          Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

ARRETE!     HE  ORDERED      .  .  .12 

HE  HURRIED  FRANTICALLY  ON 144 

"I'LL  SHOOT!"  HE  YELLED l66 

"ADIEU,  WA-GUSH,  AH  ALWAY  LOOVE  YOU,"  HE  GASPED    224 


Co 

MY    WIFE 

These  little  tales  as  memories, 

I  dedicate  to  thee, 

Of  wand'ring  days  in  summer  breeze 

All  full  of  joy  for  me. 

To  thce  I  owe  all  thoughts  I  pen, 

Take  these  as  tribute  small, 

Let's  strike  the  dear  old  trails  again 

To  the  North  wind's  sigh  and  call. 


The   White   Darkness 


1 


The  White   Darkness 

afternoon  light  faded  gradually 
till  the  tall  pines  cast  no  shadows,  and 
the  white  landscape  was  gray.  Whist 
ling  faintly,  the  wind  swayed  the  forest  branches 
to  and  fro,  now  in  long  sweeps  with  strong  puffs, 
then  in  short  bowings.  The  leaden  sky  was  dark 
and  low,  cold  and  repellent. 

Laflin  filled  his  pipe  slowly  at  the  door  of 
the  N.  W.  M.  P.  Post,  Onion  Lake,  his  home. 
"Looks  like  snow,"  he  muttered,  his  eyes  roam 
ing  over  the  long  distances  beyond  the  forests. 
Little  by  little  the  pipe  was  filled;  he  lighted  a 
match.  Puff-puff,  "I  don't  suppose  (puff)  that 
Jake  will  (puff)  get  back  to-night  (puff-puff- 
puff).  Anyhow,  I'll  have  supper  by'n'by  and 
take  a  run  over  to  the  Store."  He  stood  there 
smoking  quietly.  Then  the  flakes  of  white 
came ;  dropping  one  by  one  at  first,  then  falling 
in  silent  quantities,  finally  coming  down  in  eddy 
ing  and  pirouetting  myriads.  As  he  watched, 
they  piled  themselves  on  the  wood  heap,  hid 
(3) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


the  bright  bit  of  the  axe,  settled  on  its  handle, 
and  clung  damply  to  the  shingles  and  logs  of 
the  cabin.  "Wonder  how  far  they  come?"  He 
looked  up.  Out  of  pale  gray  nothingness  the 
big  spots  of  white  came  in  noiseless  masses; 
appearing  like  magic  from  the  oneness  of  the 
heavens,  and,  as  he  followed  them,  disappear 
ing  into  the  cold  gray  oneness  that  lay  on  the 
north.  Always  tumbling,  always  blending,  the 
particles  dropped  in  clouds.  The  wind  had 
gone  entirely;  only  the  crisp,  settling,  seething 
sound  of  the  flakes  could  be  heard.  He  went 
into  the  cabin.  A  bright  fire  sent  forth  cheery 
snappings  from  a  little  stove,  whose  red-hot 
cover  cast  a  sheen  on  the  log  ceiling.  He  lifted 
the  cover  from  a  pot ;  a  burst  of  steam  rose,  bil 
lowed  about  the  small  interior,  and  vanished. 
Laflin  stirred  the  contents.  "Those  beans  are 
the  hardest  I  ever  saw!"  The  water  boiled  and 
bubbled  with  liquid  hissings.  He  took  down  a 
frying-pan  from  its  nail  behind  the  stovepipe 
oven,  put  bacon  and  sliced  potatoes  in  it  and  a 
bit  of  butter;  it  began  to  sizzle  and  cook  at 
once.  He  was  making  his  tea  when  the  door 
opened  and  a  tall,  strong  figure  came  in,  snow- 
shoes  in  hand. 

(4) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


"Bo'jou',  bo'  jou',  Lafleen!" 

"Hello,  LaGrange;  where  are  you  bound?" 

The  trapper  unwound  his  muffler,  stuck  the 
snowshoes  in  a  corner  and  sat  on  the  rough 
bench.  "Me?  Ah'm  goin'  longue  way  baim'- 
by;  wan'  talk  leetle  firs'!" 

"Anything  wrong?"  Laflin  asked,  noting  the 
sullen  voice  and  the  gleam  of  the  deep-set  blue- 
gray  eyes. 

"Mabbe  ye-es,  mabbe  non,"  the  French- 
Canadian  answered  hesitatingly. 

The  constable  waited  for  him  to  go  on,  stir 
ring  and  turning  the  bacon  and  potatoes  the 
while. 

"You  know  dat  Gros  Gorge  an'  ma  femme 
gon'  way?" 

Laflin  turned  quickly.  "No!  When  was 
this?" 

Steadily  and  impassively  the  other  answered: 
"Mabbe  t'ree  day  h'ago,  mabbe  two  day.  Ah 
come  f'om  de  trap  lignes  dees  aftairenoon,  fin' 
de  cabane  emptee,  not'in'  dere,  onlee  dees  pair 
ol'  snow-shoe!"  He  pointed  to  them  contemp 
tuously. 

"But  your  wife  maybe  went  to  Tomah's,  or 
to  her  father's  house?" 

(5) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


The  other  laughed  bitterly.  "Ah  mak'  fin' 
h'out  ev'w'ere  een  post;  no  dere !  Som'  de  boy 
dey  say  dat  she  gon'  weet  Gros  Gorge,  dat 
sacre  Metis!"  The  voice  thrilled  and  shook 
with  fury,  but  the  huge  body  was  quiet. 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  LaGrange,  but  she's 
not  worth  having  if  that's  the  sort  of  thing  she 
has  done;  and " 

The  trapper  leaped  to  his  feet.  "Ah  no  come 
for  h'ask  you  eef  she  good  for  have  or  no! 
LaGrange  he  wan'  you  say  w'at  'appen  eef  he 
shoot  dose  two!" 

The  constable  stared  at  the  powerful  square 
face,  the  ominous  flash  of  the  eyes,  and  saw  the 
clenched  fists,  whose  muscles  stood  out  like  taut 
ened  ropes.  "You  can't  do  that,  LaGrange,  or 
I  should  have  to  arrest  you,  and  murder's  a  bad 
charge." 

The  trapper  stared  at  the  other,  still,  save 
for  the  quick  trembling  of  his  nostrils.  "An' 
ef  you  no  can  catch  .  .  .  me?" 

Laflin  chuckled.  "Then  you'd  be  safe;  but 
we  would  get  you,  LaGrange,  and  you  know  it !" 

The  bacon  was  done;  he  put  out  a  tin  plate, 
cup  and  saucer  on  the  tiny  table,  and  began  to 
eat,  the  Canadian  watching  him  stolidly. 
(6) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


"Have  a  bite?  Come  on,  now — forget  that 
killing  plan.  I  know  it's  damned  hard,  but 
you'll  have  to  do  it,  LaGrange,  that's  sure !" 

"No  wan'  for  h'eat.  Ah  go !  Bo'  jou' !"  He 
took  up  the  snowshoes,  slung  the  woolen  muf 
fler  about  his  massive  throat  and  went  out  into 
the  snow  without  another  word. 

"He's  hit  hard,"  Laflin  said  aloud.  "I  al 
ways  felt  that  he  was  too  good  for  her."  He 
ate  on  comfortably.  When  his  meal  was  fin 
ished  he  cleaned  away  the  remains,  lighted  the 
pipe  again  and  took  a  look  outside. 

The  night  was  clammy  and  raw,  the  air  still 
laden  with  the  tumbling  snow  that  showed  white 
in  the  candle-light  that  came  from  the  open 
door.  Down  in  a  hollow  the  lights  of  the 
Hudson  Bay  Company's  Post  twinkled  brightly 
through  the  trunks;  now  and  then  the  sound  of 
voices  was  wafted  to  him  by  the  light  draught. 
The  heavens  were  black  and  forbidding. 

"An  ugly  night  by  the  look  of  it  now,"  Laflin 
whispered,  and  turned.  As  he  did  so  he  heard 
the  short,  sharp  breathing  of  dogs,  and  in  an 
instant  a  sledge  drew  up  in  the  circle  of  yellow 
light. 

"Ah'm  goin'  fin'  dose  two,"  the  muffled  fig- 

(7) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


ure  said  that  crouched  on  it,  "an'  Ah'm  goin' 
keel  w'en  Ah  fin' :  you  no  catch  .  .  .  me ! 
Allez  Marse!" 

A  few  yelps,  the  whine  of  a  whip  thong,  and 
the  circle  of  light  was  empty.  The  constable 
stared,  and  listened  to  the  fast  fading  swi-i-ish 
of  the  sledge-runners  through  the  snow.  They 
were  gone! 

"He  won't  find  them,  and  if  he  does  he  won't 
dare  anything  beyond  a  fight.  My,  but  it's 
cold!"  and  he  went  in. 

He  tried  to  read  some  old  magazines  that 
furnished  the  only  literature  the  cabin  boasted 
of,  but  somehow  he  could  not  focus  his  attention 
on  the  pages.  Then  he  put  out  the  candles, 
took  off  his  heavy  service  boots,  stretched  him 
self  comfortably  between  the  long  blankets  and 
tried  to  sleep.  No  use.  The  more  he  tried  the 
more  wide  awake  he  became. 

"Why  did  that  fool  come  and  tell  me  his 
story?  I  feel  that — that  .  .  .  damn  it,  I  don't 
know  what  I  feel,"  and  he  lighted  up  again. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  listened.     Nothing 
but  the  wind  that  crooned  softly  through  the 
pine  needles  answered  his  unacknowledged  quest 
for  sound  and  lurking  dread  of  something. 
(8) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


All  night  he  sat  up,  troubled  and  wondering. 
He  waited  impatiently  for  daylight,  going  to 
the  door  often,  then  throwing  himself  on  the 
bunk  again. 

"There's  something  wrong,  and  I  know  it!" 
he  muttered,  tossing  restlessly.  "Poor  old  La- 
Grange;  it's  pretty  hard  lines  on  a  man  when 
his  eyes  are  nearly  gone  snow-blind  working  for 
that  girl,  and  she  plays  this  sort  of  a  game." 

He  got  up  and  walked  the  floor,  sometimes 
throwing  bits  of  wood  into  the  stove.  "What's 
the  matter  with  me?"  he  asked  himself  angrily. 
"I  suppose  it's  just  sympathy,  but  it's  uncom 
fortable." 

"At  last,"  he  said,  as,  opening  the  door  for 
the  manyeth  time,  he  saw  the  first  faint  streaks 
of  daylight  through  the  shrouds  of  drifting 
flakes.  He  watched  the  lightness  grow.  In 
solid  mass  the  trunks  stood,  dark  and  shapeless; 
then,  bit  by  bit,  outline  by  outline,  they  stood 
away  from  each  other,  growing  in  breadth  and 
depth  till  each  was  clear  and  defined.  The 
branches  crept  into  silhouette  against  the  bright 
ening  sky,  gray  as  ever,  and  ever  belching  snow. 
He  boiled  some  tea,  fried  some  caribou  meat, 
warmed  some  bread  and  ate  slowly.  As  he  was 
(9) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


finishing,  a  ray  of  pallid  sunlight  stole  timidly 
athwart  the  floor. 

"A  fine  day  after  all!"  Having  quenched 
the  fire,  he  took  down  his  snowshoes  and 
buckled  on  his  side  arms.  "I'll  have  a  look 
round  toward  Battleford;  Father  Lesbauts  said 
that  two  hours  in  the  bright  sun  would  blind  him 
for  months !" 

The  snow  was  deep  and  heavy,  clinging  to 
his  snowshoes  with  soggy  weight  and  strength 
as  he  pushed  on  among  the  trees.  Higher  and 
higher  the  now  open  sun  climbed,  shedding 
warm  rays  that  instilled  in  him  a  sense  of  power. 
The  white  surface  offered  a  dazzling  glare  to 
his  eyes ;  they  cringed  and  squinted.  At  the  end 
of  the  strip  of  woods  began  the  Long  Barren. 
Straight  away  it  stretched  before  him,  pale  blue- 
white  and  chilling  gray  in  the  sun.  Billions  of 
frost  points  shimmered  on  the  surface,  all  burn 
ing  his  eyes  with  their  power  and  gleam.  He 
pulled  his  fur  cap  well  down.  "Very  bad  glare 
to-day!"  he  muttered,  and  started  across  the 
apparently  endless  distance. 

Click-clack,  click-clack,  sounded  his  snow- 
shoes  as  they  struck  together,  the  noise  muffled 
by  the  impeding  snow.  Hour  after  hour  passed, 
(10) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


Laflin  swinging  in  a  great  circle  toward  Battle- 
ford.  Of  a  sudden  he  stopped.  Far  off,  a  mere 
speck  against  the  whiteness  of  everything,  was 
a  figure — at  least,  he  thought  it  so.  He  worked 
his  way  toward  it,  and  at  last  distinguished  a 
man,  standing  alone  and  motionless.  He  kept 
his  eyes  on  him,  fearing  to  lose  the  dark  form 
if  he  looked  away,  so  bright  and  strong  was  the 
glare.  He  drew  closer. 

"LaGrange!  but  where's  his  team?"  he  asked 
aloud. 

The  man  was  standing  quiet,  snowshoes  on 
his  feet,  dog  lash  in  his  hand,  his  face  turned 
toward  the  west.  Unconsciously  Laflin  looked 
there  too,  and  saw  a  larger  spot,  apparently 
motionless,  in  the  near  distance. 

"L "  he  started  to  call,  but  did  not,  and 

edged  nearer.  When  he  was  quite  close  he 
understood.  LaGrange  was  absolutely  snow- 
blind.  The  tall  figure  stood,  straining  the  sight 
less  eyes  to  the  west;  the  snow  was  disturbed 
about,  as  though  in  a  struggle. 

"I  wonder  if — Yes,  by  h 1,  it  must  be! 

I'll    see    pretty    quick."      Laflin    decided,    and 

worked  his  way  noiselessly  past  the  blind  man, 

keeping  at  some  distance  from  him,  so  as  to  be 

(n) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


sure  that  he  should  not  be  heard.  He  hurried 
along  then  toward  the  far  black  spot,  that  was 
in  the  same  place ;  striding  on,  he  kept  under  the 
brow  of  a  snow  rise  until  he  was  close  to  the 
place;  then  he  crept  forward.  Just  over  the 
top  was  a  sledge  and  two  people  beside  it — a 
man  and  a  woman.  The  man  was  busily  at 
work  demolishing  the  remains  of  a  sledge, 
whose  bone  runners  lay  on  the  snow  by  him; 
the  woman  stood  waiting.  A  double  team  of 
dogs  sat  about,  their  tongues  lolling  and  drool 
streaming  to  the  softening  snow  under  their  feet. 

"The  devils!  they've  got  his  sledge  and  team 
away  from  him,  and  now  they  are  going  to  leave 
him  to  die!  Not  if  I  know  it,  even  if  I  can't 
arrest  any  one !"  He  drew  his  revolver,  sneaked 
to  the  very  top  of  the  rise,  then — "Arrete!"  he 
ordered. 

The  girl  screamed,  the  man,  Gros  Gorge, 
flinching  at  the  sight  of  the  gun.  Laflin  scram 
bled  to  them.  "I'll  give  you  just  one  minute  to 
start  away  from  here;  and  if  I  ever  see  you 
again  in  Onion  Lake  Post  I'll  have  you  sent  to 
Stony  Mountain*  for  stealing  a  sledge ;  you  un 
derstand?" 

*The  penitentiary  of  the  Northwestern  Provinces. 
(12) 


' 


"Arrclc!  "  lie  ordered 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


The  half-breed  (Metis)  mumbled  his  will 
ingness  to  do  anything  for  "de  Polees." 

"Take  your  own  dogs  and  sledge.  GO!" 
Gros  Gorge  went,  the  dogs'  feet  stirring  up 
clouds  of  snow-dust  that  sparkled  in  the  sun 
light.  Laflin  watched  him  out  of  sight  to  the 
westward.  He  turned  to  the  girl.  How  did 
you  get  your  husband's  sledge?" 

She  began  to  cry. 

"None  of  that !     Speak  up,  or  I  arrest  you !" 

She  looked  at  him  with  tear-dimmed  brown 
eyes.  "He  fallen  h'off  w'en  sledde  turn  ovaire 
een  hole  la  bas." 

"What  were  you  doing  there?" 

She  stammered  and  hesitated. 

"Come,  speak  up!" 

"Gros  Gorge  he  loove  me,"  she  whimpered. 
"We  no  wan'  for  to  keel  LaGrange."  She 
leaned  forward.  "Onlee  tak'  hees  sledde." 

"And  leave  him  to  die,  you  fiend !  You  know 
that  LaGrange  is  snow-blind,  and  blind  for  your 
sake,  working  like  a  dog  for  the  Company  to 
give  you  a  home  and  food!" 

She  whined  and  cried  softly. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  to  him;  he  loves 
you  more  than  his  life;  and  listen  well  to  what 

(13) 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


I  say.  I  am  going  to  tell  him — never  mind 
what  I  tell  him,  only  obey  me,  or  I  will  take  you 
to  Barracks.  You  know  what  that  means?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"And  if  I  ever  see  anything  like  this  again, 
I " 

"Non,  non!"  she  pleaded;  and  the  two 
started  back  for  the  lone  figure.  It  came  in 
sight  soon,  but  not  quite  as  it  was  when  Laflin 
passed  it.  LaGrange  was  stumbling  slowly 
about,  wandering  aimlessly  over  the  dazzling 
Barren;  groping  weirdly  with  his  hands,  and 
muttering  to  himself. 

"Holla,  LaGrange !" 

Hearing  Laflin^'s  voice,  he  stiffened  and  stood 
still. 

"I've  found  your  wife  I" 

"Were?  w'ere?"   he  asked  thickly. 

"Why,  she  got  lost  out  here  on  that  long  trap 
line  of  yours ;  I  always  told  you  it  was  too  long 
for  her  to  look  after!" 

"Go  to  him,"  Laflin  whispered  fiercely. 

She  went. 

He  put  his  great  arms  about  her  lithe  figure. 
"Dieu  merci !  Dieu  merci!"  he  groaned. 
"Ah'm  loss'  de  team  een  dat  hole  down  dere; 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


dey  gon'  ouest.  Ah  was  comen',"  he  stuttered 
a  moment — "Ah  was  comen'  for  lock  de  line, 
but  my  eye'hes  dey  go  bad.  Ah  no  can  see  now ! 
Ah,  Nanette,  your  oF  mari  he  h'ave  sooch  terri 
ble  drream  'bout  you,  but  eet  no  trrue.  Dieu 
merci !  no  trrue !"  He  wrapped  his  long,  gaunt 
arms  about  her,  and  the  tears  came  from  the 
temporarily  sightless  eyes.  "You  tak'  me  home, 
Nanette,  hein?" 

Laflin  nodded,  glowering  at  her. 

"Certaine,  mon  pauvre." 

The  three  started,  LaGrange  holding  tightly 
to  the  girl's  hand,  Laflin  following.  They  came 
to  the  police  cabin. 

"What  in  the  devil — ?"  began  a  figure  in  the 
doorway. 

"It's  all  right,  Jake.  Nanette  got  lost,  and 
LaGrange  has  gone  snow-blind,  just  as  Father 
Lesbauts  said  he  would  if  he  didn't  take  care." 

The  girl,  leading  the  tall,  helpless  figure, 
moved  on  toward  the  group  of  houses  in  the 
valley. 

"Don't  forget,"  Laflin  whispered  as  she 
passed;  and  she  nodded  slowly. 

The  two  mounted  police  watched  them  down 
the  path,  the  sun  in  its  afternoon  glory  soften- 


WHITE    DARKNESS 


ing  the  outlines  of  the  forest,  and  throwing  the 
two  departing  figures  into  strong  relief. 

"She's  young — may  be  all  right  yet,"  Laflin 
muttered  as  they  disappeared. 

"Who's  young?  what's  young?"  the  other 
asked. 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing;  I  was  thinking,  that's 
all."  And  the  two  went  into  the  cabin. 


(16) 


Jaquette 


Jaquette 


'  T  TT  T'HY  for  he  no  come?" 

%/%/  Jaquette  went  to  the  door  of 
V  V  the  log  house  and  listened.  The 
forest  stood  about  the  little  clearing,  tall  and 
silent.  Here  and  there  the  bushy  tops  of  the 
highest  pines  swayed  and  whispered  uncertainly, 
and  from  beyond  she  heard  the  sound  of  run 
ning  waters. 

The  girl  was  lithe  and  strong,  and  as  she 
leaned  against  the  board  door,  her  brown  eyes 
wandered  keenly  among  the  trees. 

"Dat  fonnee  Toma  no  come,"  she  muttered 
again. 

Night  crept  slowly  out  of  the  east  as  she 
watched,  and  the  fir  turned  blacker  and  sharper 
against  the  fading  light  in  the  skies.  The  sur 
roundings  were  somber  and  still  as  the  starlight 
reached  the  earth. 

A  rabbit  hopped  quietly  from  the  under 
brush;  she  could  just  see  it  moving  the  long, 
delicate  ears  inquiringly  and  nosing  on  the 
ground  almost  at  her  feet.  She  watched  the 

(19) 


JAQUETTE 

little  animal  unseeing,  yet  noting  its  every  move 
ment.  Behind  her  the  fire  in  a  small  stove  threw 
yellow  rays  that  were  as  streaks  across  the  clear 
ing,  showing  the  white  chips  of  wood  and  glint 
ing  on  a  bright  axe. 

"Hoo-hoo-a-a." 

She  looked  up  quickly,  and,  putting  her  hands 
to  her  lips,  she  answered,  "Hoo-hoo-a,"  imi 
tating  the  owl's  cry.  "He  come  ver'  soon!" 
She  laughed  gayly.  "Ah  mak'  soupe  for  heem; 
hee  hongree  v'en  hee  arriv'." 

Singing,  she  bustled  about  the  little  interior, 
built  up  the  fire,  and  placed  a  kettle  of  tea  and  a 
frying-pan  full  of  deer-meat  and  salt  pork  in 
the  flames.  Then  she  went  over  to  an  oblong 
box  in  the  corner,  lifted  a  quilt-covered  bundle, 
and  rocked  it  in  her  arms,  crooning  gently  to  it. 

"Bebe,  petite  bebette,  le  pere,  he  come  weed 
leetle  present  for  toi  to-mor',  Noel !"  The  child 
was  quiet,  its  tiny  white  face  nestled  against  her 
rough  jacket,  its  big  solemn  eyes  looking  up  at 
her  unblinkingly.  Then  they  closed  wearily, 
and  Jaquette  put  the  little  one  back  in  the  box, 
covering  it  carefully  with  the  tattered  but  clean 
quilt  of  many  patches  and  colors. 

The   meat  sizzled,   sending  up   vapors  that 

(20) 


JAQUETTE 

filled  the  room  with  their  suggestion  of  hunger, 
the  pork  sputtered,  and  the  flying  drops  hissed 
angrily  on  the  dull  red  surface  of  the  stove. 

Jaquette  turned  the  venison,  then  she  lighted 
a  candle.  The  feeble  flame  illumined  every 
thing  vaguely.  Over  by  a  bough  bed  a  rifle 
was  supported  by  two  forked  sticks,  and  some 
snowshoes  hung  above  it,  their  hoops  white  and 
gracefully  curved.  A  few  clothes  dangled  on 
pegs  by  the  rough  table,  and  beneath  them  a  pile 
of  light-weight  steel  traps  showed  black,  their 
jagged  teeth  clenched,  and  their  chains  twisted 
and  tangled  on  the  floor. 

The  girl  put  two  heavy  china  cups  on  the 
table — they  were  cracked  and  had  no  handles; 
two  tin  plates  were  already  there;  these,  with 
three  odd  knives  and  one  fork  with  bent  prongs, 
constituted  the  arrangements  of  the  table  for 
supper.  From  a  canvas  bag  she  drew  out  a 
soggy  loaf  of  bread,  and  from  behind  it  a  small 
jug  of  molasses  and  a  few  potatoes. 

"He  mus'  be  tout  pres;  dat  taim  he  call  was 
comen'  h'ovaire  the  Beeg  Montaigne,  certaine- 
ment,"  she  whispered,  and  went  to  the  door 
again. 

It  had  begun  to  snow,  and  a  soft,  cold  wind 

(21) 


moved  the  silent  branches  restlessly.  Great 
white  flakes  drifted  quiet  and  chill  through  the 
darkness  and  settled  with  audible  crispness  on 
everything.  The  stars  had  disappeared;  the 
skies  were  black  and  low  to  the  earth.  The 
wind  increased  slowly  from  a  faint  murmur  to 
a  droning  moan  that  shook  the  forest,  causing 
it  to  creak  and  complain  as  its  branches  swayed 
violently  to  and  fro.  The  ghostlike  bits  whirled 
and  eddied  about,  and  melted  in  the  girl's  hair, 
trickling  over  her  face  as  she  stood  waiting, 
straining  her  senses  to  hear.  Nothing  but  the 
shrill  sounds  of  the  storm  answered  her.  She 
went  out  into  the  clearing  and  over  to  the  dark 
edges  of  the  trees. 

"Ah  hear  heem,"  she  began,  when: 

"Hoo-hoo-a-ar"  sounded  harshly  over  her 
head  from  the  impenetrable  blackness  of  a  tall 
fir.  She  staggered  a  moment. 

"Bon  Dieu !  dat  no  Toma,"  she  muttered 
weakly. 

"Hoo-hoo-al"  was  her  answer;  then  an  in 
stant's  flapping,  and  the  owl  was  gone. 

She  went  back  to  the  hut  slowly,  while  the 
snow,  clustering  upon  her,  soaked  its  clammy 
way  to  her  throat  and  breast.  She  almost  fell 

(22) 


JAQUETTE 

in  the  little  interior,  and  sank  wearily  on  the 
bough  bed. 

"Toma — Toma,"  she  whispered,  rocking 
nervously  back  and  forth,  while  the  gale 
screamed  in  the  surrounding  forests  and  the 
snow  hurtled  itself,  piling  up  in  white  masses 
about  the  logs. 

The  fire  in  the  stove  dimmed  and  sank,  till 
only  red  glows  peeped  from  the  cracks  in  the 
door  and  draught-holes  as  she  sat  waiting.  Then 
from  the  box  in  the  corner  came  a  fretting  cry 
that  changed  into  a  shrill  wail. 

Jaquette  was  instantly  beside  it  and  rocked  the 
little  bundle,  humming  softly.  Loud  and  in 
cessant  the  voice  sounded,  and  then  the  child 
coughed  raspingly.  She  twisted  some  rags  into 
a  pitiful  imitation  of  a  doll  and  gave  it  to  the 
little  one,  but  the  thin  hands  pushed  it  away, 
and  the  cough  came  more  often,  accompanied 
by  a  hoarse  rattle  and  wheezing.  Holding  the 
child  on  one  arm,  Jaquette  threw  some  wood  on 
the  dying  fire,  and,  bending  low,  looked  closely 
at  the  small  face  in  her  arms.  By  the  growing, 
dancing  light  she  saw  the  flush  on  the  cheeks, 
and  the  solemn  eyes  glittered  strangely  while 
the  hands  clasped  and  unclasped  spasmodically. 
(23) 


JAQUETTE 

"Bon  Dieu,  Bebette  she  have  la  fievre  d'hiver 
[winter  fever],"  the  girl  said,  with  choking 
sobs,  and  great  tears  dropped  on  the  quilt  of 
many  colors.  "Wat  Ah  do,  O  Sainte  Vierge — 
w'at  Ah  do?"  She  threw  up  her  head  wildly. 

Outside,  the  storm  roared  and  yowled,  and 
the  driving  white  beat  against  the  little  hut  with 
stinging  strength. 

"Ah  have  netting  for  geef  to  her — netting," 
she  whispered,  her  eyes  traveling  over  the  bare 
furnishings  and  empty  shelves.  "Netting!"  she 
breathed,  as  the  tears  trickled  over  her  face 
steadily. 

The  child  shivered  against  her  body,  then 
broke  out  in  more  violent  coughings. 

"Eet  fef'ten  mile  to  Beau  Rivage;  dere's  doc- 
teur  dere  las'  wic' ;  mabbe  he  dere  now.  Ah  go 
an'  tak'  Bebette,"  she  decided,  and  put  the  child 
down  by  the  heat  while  she  hurriedly  pulled  on 
a  fur  cap  of  Toma's  and  threw  a  long  caribou 
coat  over  herself. 

"Toma  he  no  know  w'ere  Ah  gon',"  she  mut 
tered,  and  hunted  about,  at  last  finding  an  old 
liniment  bottle.  This  she  put  in  the  box  crib  on 
the  rough  pillow. 

"He  know  by  dat  Bebette  seeck,"  and,  taking 
(24) 


JAQUETTE 

up  the  child  again,  she  wrapped  the  quilt  about 
it  securely  and  opened  the  door.  A  howling 
blast  of  wind  rushed  in,  carrying  myriads  of 
snow  particles  that  struck  her  face  and  caused 
her  to  gasp  and  catch  her  breath. 

"Mus'  tak'  snowshoe."  She  went  back,  pulled 
down  a  pair,  slung  them  over  her  shoulder,  and 
went  out  into  the  darkness  and  sleeting  white, 
shutting  the  door  after  her. 

The  tearing  gale  pushed  her  here  and  there 
as  she  started,  but  with  head  bent  forward  and 
the  child  protected  as  well  as  possible  by  her 
arms  and  the  caribou  coat,  she  forced  her  way 
ahead  bravely.  In  a  few  moments  the  hut  was 
gone  in  the  blackness  behind,  and  before  her  the 
trail  to  the  settlement  showed  vague  and  bewil 
dering,  as  clouds  of  snow  billowed  across  it  in 
great  freezing  drifts,  sometimes  hiding  it  en 
tirely.  The  trees  moaned  and  creaked  eerily, 
rubbing  together  and  squeaking  with  sounds  that 
pierced  the  roaring  of  the  pines  and  suggested 
the  Windigos  of  the  Storm. 

The  snow  grew  deeper  at  each  step,  till  finally 
it  reached  her  knees  and  chilled  them  through 
and  through ;  then  she  struggled  with  the  snow- 
shoe  thongs,  lashing  them  about  her  ankles  as 
(25) 


JAQUETTE 

well  as  she  could  with  one  hand,  and  pushed  on. 
The  way  led  across  a  mile  of  lake;  the  ice  was 
black  and  hard,  but  the  shrieking  wind  tore  at 
her  dress  while  the  snow  climbed  in  under  it  and 
stung  icily,  then,  melting,  froze. 

"Mus'  go — mus'  go!"  the  girl  repeated  over 
and  over  again,  fighting  her  way,  and  pausing 
often  for  breath. 

She  could  feel  the  coughings  at  her  breast, 
though  the  arm  that  held  the  child  was  stiff  and 
numbed. 

When  almost  at  the  black  forest  line  again, 
she  saw  a  dark  figure  coming  toward  her.  In  a 
moment  it  was  at  her  side. 

"Who  ees "  began  a  deep  voice. 

"Torna !"  she  cried,  holding  out  the  bundle 
in  her  arms.  Be " 

The  big  man  gripped  her  arm  and  dragged 
her  face  to  his. 

"Dos  poleece,  dey  aftaire  me  for  keel 
Etienne!" 

"Ah — h  !"  she  cried,  weakly. 

"You  rememb'  dat  taim  Ah  keel  heem,  w'en 
he  go  for  to  mak'  bad  t'ing  on  you?"  the  man 
shouted,  to  make  himself  heard  above  the  hiss 
ing  of  the  snow  and  howling  of  the  wind. 
(26) 


JAQUETTE 

Jaquette  nodded. 

"Dos  poleece  dey  say  dat  Ah  do  dat,  an'  dey 
aftaire  me  by  dam'  now  1  You  look  for  me?" 
and  he  laughed  happily.  "Ah  was  to  have  to 
go  roun',  cherie.  You  go  back  queeck  you  can, 
mak'  hide  dat  Etienne  his  gun;  eef  de  poleece 
dey  fin'  dat  at  hut,  eet  feenesh  for  me.  Ah  come 
back  on  t'ree  call  du  hibou  w'en  dey  gon'.  Au 
r'voir!"  And  Toma  disappeared,  wrapped  in 
stantly  in  the  shifting  masses  of  flying  snow. 

The  girl  strangled  in  her  agony. 

"Toma ! — Toma !"  she  called  then,  and 
screamed,  "De  bebe ! — shee  seeck!" 

Nothing  but  storm  sounds  answered  her, 
while  the  drift  piled  on  her  snowshoes,  threat 
ening  to  bury  them. 

"Poleece!  Poleece  keel  Toma,"  she  mum 
bled,  brokenly,  swaying  with  the  wind — "po 
leece  keel  Toma !" 

Keel !  The  gale  seemed  thunder  in  her  ears. 
She  looked  in  the  direction  he  had  gone,  and 
sought  to  pierce  the  blinding,  biting  hurtleclouds 
of  snow,  while  the  child  coughed  and  shook 
under  its  covers.  Then  her  head  turned  toward 
the  back  trail,  and  from  it  to  the  settlement  path, 
and  she  hesitated. 

(27) 


JAQUETTE 

"Bebette,  Toma  —  Bebette,  Toma,"  she 
moaned,  then  turned  fiercely  on  her  tracks  and 
started  back. 

She  bent  her  head  over  the  form  in  her  arms, 
great  sobs  quivering  her  body. 

"Adieu,  Bebette,  mon  Bebe !  Your  faddaire 
he  say  go  back  for  sauf  his  laif,  an'  Ah  go!" 

The  strength  of  the  hurricane  wind  hurried 
her  on,  pushing  her  ahead  of  it.  She  stumbled 
forward,  unconsciously  lifting  her  snowshoes 
and  mechanically  putting  them  down  again  till 
she  came  to  the  hut.  She  fell  against  the  door 
and  dragged  herself  inside.  With  feverish 
hands  she  unwound  the  child  and  put  it  in  the 
box;  then  she  leaped  for  the  rifle,  snatched  it 
from  its  rest  of  crotched  sticks,  ran  to  the  door 
and  out  into  the  storm  again,  across  the  clear 
ing,  into  the  woods,  till  she  came  to  a  little 
brook.  The  swift  water  had  not  frozen,  and  it 
gurgled  cold  and  repellent  at  her  feet.  Just 
below  the  ice  was  thick,  and  she  pushed  the  rifle 
far  under  the  hard  surface,  dipping  her  arm  to 
the  shoulder,  so  as  to  get  the  gun  absolutely  out 
of  sight. 

"Bebe!"  she  whispered,  when  she  came  to 
their  home  again,  lifting  the  child — "Bebe!" 
(28) 


JAQUETTE 

No  answer.  The  little  figure  lay  stiff  in  her 
arms,  quiet. 

"Bebette!"  she  cried,  and  shook  it  gently, 
peering  at  the  white  face;  then  she  understood. 

For  a  time  the  girl  stood  like  a  statue  in  the 
cold  room.  At  last,  dry-eyed,  but  with  an  awful 
tightening  at  the  heart,  she  laid  the  child  slowly 
in  its  box,  and  pulled  the  ragged  quilt  over  it 
with  all  a  mother's  tenderness,  and  turned 
away,  seeing  nothing,  heeding  nothing,  knowing 
nothing. 

The  hours  passed  on,  pain-laden  and  storm- 
fraught,  till  a  faint  gray  light  grew  timidly  out 
side.  Haggard  and  witless,  Jaquette  went  to 
the  door,  propping  her  aching  body  against  it. 

"De  poleece,  dey  come !"  she  murmured,  for 
cing  her  brain  to  action  as  she  heard  voices. 
They  ceased,  and  from  the  gloom  of  the  forest 
five  men  on  horses  came  in  single  file  to  the 
hut. 

"Hello,  Jaquette!"  one  of  them  called. 
"Where  isToma?" 

She  swallowed  hard  and  bit  her  lip  to  the 
blood. 

"He  gon'  mak'  trap  on  Lac  des  Pluies." 

"H'm!"  grunted  another,  "gon'  mak'  trap, 
(29) 


JAQUETTE 

hein?    Wen?"    The  voice  was  crafty  and  sus 
picious. 

The  girl  thought  quickly  now. 

"Dis  night  he  gon',  mabbe  seex  hour." 

"That  makes  it  right,  Ay-ma-te;  stop  growl 
ing.  We  saw  Toma  at  the  settlement  yesterday 
— you  know !"  The  first  man  tethered  his  horse 
to  a  log  and  blanketed  him  as  he  spoke. 

"Ai-hai !"  growled  the  Indian.  It  was  an 
Indian  who  questioned  Toma's  absence.  "You 
Englese  know  all  t'ing,  Ma-tche-man-itou !  Ah 
no  t'ink  Toma  he  gon'  I" 

"Look  for  yourself,  ye  Indian — go  on,  look 
then !"  and  another  member  of  the  police 
cursed.  "Damn  ye,  go  look!  I'm  goin'  to 
warm  me;  kin  we,  Jaquit?" 

The  girl  nodded,  and  stood  aside  as  the  five 
tramped  in.  The  Indian  walked  softly  about 
while  the  others  built  up  the  dead  fire. 

"Ha !"  he  called,  when  he  found  the  crotched 
sticks  the  rifle  had  rested  on.  "De  gun  he  'way ! 
dat  certaine.  Who  gun  stay  dere?"  he  asked, 
frowning  at  the  girl. 

"No  gun,"  she  answered,  steadily;  "speare 
for  de  saumon,  so,"  and  she  picked  up  a  long 
salmon-spear  and  hung  it  on  the  sticks. 
(30) 


JAQUETTE 

"H — m!"  The  big  Indian  grumbled,  and 
moved  up  to  the  fast-reddening  stove.  The 
Northwest  Police,  for  the  five  were  of  that  corps, 
sat  around  the  heat. 

"De  horse  col'  ?"  Jaquette  asked,  looking  out. 
The  five  horses  stood  clustered  together,  their 
tails  to  the  storm,  their  heads  sunk  low;  the  long 
manes  crackled  sharply  under  the  ice-hung  outer 
hairs,  while  the  heavy  stirrups  swung  to  and 
fro. 

The  dull-blue  blankets  flapped  wildly  in  the 
wind,  and  the  growing  light  showed  globules 
of  white  on  the  horses'  lips  and  frozen  bits  on 
their  fetlocks.  The  ugly  carbine-butts  were 
coated  with  frost,  and  the  revolver-holsters 
showed  black  and  damp.  The  snow  fell  more 
slowly  and  drifted  unevenly  on  everything. 

"Ah  'ope  la  neige  she  no  stop  teel  my  trac' 
couvert,"  the  girl  whispered  to  herself,  and 
turned  as  the  Englishman  spoke. 

"How's  the  kid?" 

As  answer,  she  went  over  to  the  box  and  pulled 
aside  the  quilt.  "Bebette  dead  las'  night,"  she 
announced,  abruptly. 

"Good  God !"  and  the  man  sprang  to  his  feet. 
"No,  Jaquette — not  dead?" 

(3O 


JAQUETTE 

The  mother  moved  her  head  affirmatively  and 
let  the  cover  fall  on  the  tiny  face,  bursting  into 
dry  shakings  of  her  shoulders.  The  men  took 
off  their  caps  in  awe,  and  a  deep  silence  settled 
on  the  interior. 

"Jaquette,  I'm  sorry,"  the  Englishman  said 
then,  in  low  tones.  "God  bless  and  keep  you  in 
your  trouble  and  pain.  Come  on,  men!"  he 
said  to  the  others. 

They  rose. 

"'Ow'boutToma?  Hee  keel  Etienne!"  The 
Indian  looked  round  searchingly. 

"Ye  didn't  find  Etienne's  gun,  did  ye?  An' 
'tan't  here  ef  ye  didn't  find  it.  He  didn't  kill 
him.  Come  on !"  another  hissed,  and  the  five 
passed  out,  unblanketed  their  horses,  mounted, 
and  rode  away,  the  dull  champing  of  bits  and 
thick  plod-plod  of  horses'  feet  sounding  heavy 
on  the  snowy  air. 

Jaquette  watched  them  go  from  the  clearing, 
saw  them  disappear  in  the  half-light  of  the  for 
est  trunks,  and  waited  for  two  hours,  while  the 
thin  light  grew  into  full  day  and  the  snow-clouds 
parted,  letting  through  warm,  soft  rays  of  the 
climbing  sun.  The  air  was  still. 

Weakly  she  put  her  hands  to  her  mouth. 
(32) 


JAQUETTE 

"Hoo-hoo-a !"  she  called  three  times,  and  lis 
tened.  From  a  distance  came  the  answer,  "Hoo- 
hoo-a  !"  and  she  closed  her  eyes. 

Then  two  arms  lifted  her. 

"We  fool  dose  poleece,  hein,  cherie?"  a  strong 
voice  waked  her.  "An'  Bebette?  Ah  go  mak' 
kees!"  and  Toma  went  over  to  the  box.  "O 
Dieu  1"  he  stuttered,  and  looked  at  his  wife. 

Jaquette  nodded  very  slowly.  "For  you  dees, 
Toma — for  you!"  and  she  told  him. 

He  put  his  strong  hands  over  his  face;  then 
he  drew  from  his  shirt  a  little  wax  doll  and  a 
tin  whistle  and  laid  them  reverently  on  the  little 
form. 

"Dose  for  you !"  he  whispered  huskily. 

The  girl  went  to  him,  and  they  stood  in  silence 
while  the  sunlight  crept  in  beams  of  white  across 
the  log  floor. 

"Mabbe  som'taim'  le  bon  Dieu  He  geef  to 
us  'nodder  Bebette,"  Toma  whispered. 

"Mabbe,"  she  answered,  and  laid  her  head 
on  his  great  shoulder — "mabbe." 


(33) 


The   Silver   Fox 


The  Silver  Fox 

WHEN  the  days  were  short  and  the 
forest  bare  of  leaves;  when  au 
tumnal  colors  had  gone,  leaving 
brown  trunks  and  the  dark  green  pines  and  firs; 
when  the  caribou  called  hoarsely  on  the  barren 
lands  and  the  beaver  worked  to  get  in  their  win 
ter  supply,  then  Sebat  gathered  the  few  steel 
traps  he  had,  packed  some  food,  his  blanket  and 
two  shirts  around  them,  slung  the  whole  on  his 
axe-handle,  tossed  the  bundle  to  his  shoulder, 
picked  up  his  carbine  and  started  from  Fort  a 
la  Corne  for  Lac  le  Rouge  through  the  wilder 
ness. 

The  day  was  dark  and  a  raw  wind  muttered 
among  the  tall  tops. 

"Hm!"  he  snorted  as  he  traveled  rapidly  on. 
"Dat  facteur  Daniele  he  t'ink  he  h'ave  som't'ing 
for  not'ing.  Ah  goin'  see  dat  Murchee-son  h'at 
le  Rouge,  mabbe  so  he  mor'  honorable." 

Around  windfalls,  down  ravines,  up  the 
rough  river  beaches,  over  low  mountain  runs, 

(37) 


SILVER    FOX 


past  lakes  and  the  dead  water  stretches  of 
streams,  he  plodded  on. 

Always  the  wind  mourned  and  the  forest  was 
deserted  save  for  a  hurrying  rabbit  now  and 
then  and  sometimes  a  fleeting  glimpse  that  he 
got  of  a  caribou,  its  thudding  feet  rustling  in 
the  depths  of  frosted  leaves.  He  camped  that 
night  near  the  Hudson  Bay  Post  at  Green  Lake, 
but  he  did  not  go  in  there  because  he  knew  that 
the  factor  was  short  of  trappers  and  would  try 
to  make  him  stay. 

"De  troubl'  weet  dees  Compagnie,"  he  whis 
pered  as  he  boiled  some  tea  by  the  little  fire, 
"ees  dat  les  facteurs  dey  fighten'  too  much  wan 
noddaire  for  mak'  beeges'  lot  monnaie;  d'ln- 
dians  no  get  'nough  for  h'eat  an'  die.  Sacree," 
he  spoke  aloud  in  his  vehemence,  udey  no  goin' 
starrve  Sebat,  dat  sure!"  and  he  ate  his  supper. 
Tiny  snowflakes  dropped  into  the  firelight  as 
he  finished. 

"Snow?  she  come  earlee  dees  saison,"  and  he 
laid  on  a  few  more  boughs  over  his  one-man 
lean-to.  Soon  he  was  asleep  and  the  night 
passed  on,  cold  and  dismal.  The  snow  ceased 
and  the  wind  came  stronger  and  stronger,  shrill 
ing  in  the  hemlocks  with  long-drawn  sounds. 
(38) 


SILVER    FOX 


By  the  first  signs  of  light  Sebat  had  his  fire 
going  again,  and  when  the  frugal  breakfast  was 
over  he  shouldered  his  load  and  went  on.  Late 
in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  he  stopped 
suddenly,  while  passing  through  a  muskeg 
swamp. 

"Silvare  fox?"  and  he  got  down  on  his  knees 
by  a  log  that  had  fallen  outward  from  the  tim 
ber.  He  searched  the  bark  keenly. 

"Ha !"  He  carefully  drew  a  long  gray  hair 
from  the  rough  edges. 

"Ha — ha !  by  diable,  dat  wan  nombair  wan 
silvaire  fox,"  he  muttered.  "Dat  feller  mus' 
be  leeven  clos'.  S'posen'  ovaire  dere  een  dat 
spleet  rock,  hein?"  Then  he  answered  his  own 
questions. 

"Certain !  Ah  goin'  get  dat  fine  animal  leetle 
mor'  late,  w'en  snow  deep !" 

At  dusk  he  reached  the  Company's  Post  at 
Lac  le  Rouge. 

"Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',  Michele,"  he  said,  push 
ing  open  the  door  of  a  little  log  house. 

The  man  looked  up  startled.  "Eh?  Ben 
dat  you,  Sebat!  Ah  t'ink  you  down  a  la 
Corne." 

"Jus'  so,  but  Ah  no  lak'  de  facteur;  Ah'm 
(39) 


SILVER    FOX 


comen'  le  Rouge  for  trappen'  dees  wintare ;  for 
mek  beeg  lot  monnaie,  go  see  Annette  and  dose 
petits  Ah  got,"  and  he  chuckled.  "Par  Dieu, 
you  know  Ah  got  seez !  T'ree  gargons,  an' 
t'ree  filles!" 

The  other  laughed. 

"Dat  all  ver'  bon  w'en  you  got  strong  han's 
for  worrk;  s'posen'  you  seek,  w'at  happens?" 

"Ah  dunno,"  Sebat  answered,  and  his  face 
sank;  then  brightened,  "Ah'm  strong  feller 
manee  year  yet!" 

Michele  Poitrin  lighted  his  pipe. 

"You  get  suppaire  ef  you  want,  hein?" 

They  talked  long,  for  they  were  old  friends; 
then  Sebat  went  to  the  store. 

"Bo'  jou',  M'sieu  Murcheeson." 

The  factor,  at  his  desk  behind  the  counter, 
nodded,  and  Sebat  glanced  about  the  white 
washed  and  raftered  interior. 

A  few  "outside"  trappers,  one  or  two  Cana 
dians  and  a  lot  of  Indians  squatted  and  stood 
round,  talking  in  low,  soft  voices.  The  air 
was  thick  with  the  reek  of  pipes ;  candles  lighted 
the  scene. 

Murchison  looked  up:  "What  is't  ye'r 
wantin'?" 

(40) 


SILVER    FOX 


Sebat  gazed  at  the  little  Scotchman  from  his 
towering  height. 

"Ah'm  t'inkin'  mak'  hunt  for  you  dees  win- 
taire." 

"Trap  an'  welcome,"  Murchison  chuckled; 
then  in  a  whisper  to  the  clerk,  "We'll  have  the 
grreatest  lot  o'  skins  ever  come  out  the  dees- 
trict  this  year!  They're  all  flockin'  to  us." 
His  subordinate  acquiesced  wearily  and  con 
tinued  to  add  rows  of  small  figures  that  danced 
before  his  eyes  as  the  candle  in  front  of  him 
guttered  and  wavered. 

"D'ye  want  some  grub?" 

"Ai-hai"  (yes).  Sebat  walked  over  to  the 
counter  and  brought  his  fist  down  with  a  crack 
ling  thump. 

"An  Ah  wan'  grub  at  de  'line'  cost!  Ha — 
ha !  You  see  Sebat  he  know  w'at  de  cost  ees  at  de 
'line,'  an'  w'at  dey  geef  for  skeens  dere  aussi." 

The  factor  stared.  The  store  was  silent — 
then  Murchison's  eyes  narrowed,  but  he  turned 
to  his  desk  without  further  remark. 

"H'm !"  Sebat  snorted  again,  and  went  out. 
"Dat  Murcheeson  ees  'fraid  h'of  me!''  he  an 
nounced  proudly,  entering  Michele's  hut. 

"You  bessis  tak'  care  h'of  dat  mans!     He 


SILVER    FOX 


h'ave  wan  hearrt  lak' "     Michele  took  up 

a  stone  hammer  and  slammed  it  on  the  floor — 
"dat." 

Sebat  laughed.  "Ah  don'  t'ink  he  goin' 
hurrt  me !"  and  the  two  rolled  up  in  their  blan 
kets  on  the  little  bough  beds. 

Outside,  dogs  yowled  singly  and  in  unison; 
the  long-drawn  wails  echoing  and  re-echoing 
fainter  and  fainter  in  the  silent  forests.  They 
listened  to  their  own  voices,  then  yelped  on. 

The  waters  of  the  lake  rolled  noiselessly; 
sometimes  breaking  on  the  shingle  with  chill 
whisperings;  then  curling  liquidly,  lapping  one 
another.  Across  from  the  Post  islands  stood 
out  black  and  lonely,  only  their  outlines  visible 
in  the  darkness. 

As  the  first  signs  of  day  came,  pale  green 
and  scarlet  in  the  east,  the  Post  was  awake. 
After  breakfast  Sebat  went  over  to  the  store 
again. 

"Geef  me  twent  pound  flour,  t'ree  pound 
tea,  ten  pound  porrk  an'  wan  pound  salt !" 

The  clerk  weighed  each  article  and  put  the 
amount  in  his  ledger.  "Sebat  Duval  four  dol 
lars  and  twelve  cents."  The  voice  was  apa 
thetic  and  dull. 

(42) 


SILVER    FOX 


"How  dat?" 

"Those  are  our  prices !  Take  it — or  leave 
it!" 

The  big  trapper  started  to  push  the  food 
back,  thought  better  of  it  and  tucked  the  pack 
ages  under  his  arms. 

"You  goin'  see!"  he  called  over  his  shoulder, 
"Ah'm  no  Indian  for  mak'  starrve,  par  Dieu !" 

The  clerk  paid  no  attention,  and  Sebat  went 
back  to  Michele's. 

"Ah'm  goin'  by  Churcheel  Riviere  to-day," 
he  said,  packing  his  supplies  and  outfit. 

"Wat  for  dere?" 

Sebat  looked  about  the  yard.  "Beeg  lot  fur 
la  bas,"  he  whispered,  "mabbe  Ah  get — den 
h'ave  plent'  monnaie,  go  home,  see  Annette 
an'  de  leetle  wans." 

"B'en,  au'woir,"  Michele  called  as  Sebat 
started,  snowshoes,  axe,  traps,  food,  blankets 
in  a  firm  pack-load  on  his  back,  tump  line  over 
his  forehead.  He  waved  his  hand,  and  disap 
peared  among  the  hemlock  on  the  lake  trail. 

Every  two  hours  or  so  he  would  rest,  either 

propping  his  heavy  load  on  a  high-fallen  tree, 

or  slipping  it  to  the   ground;   then  he  would 

smoke,  his  eyes  coursing  through  the  forest  the 

(43) 


SILVER    FOX 


while,  noting  everything.  He  saw  the  shuf 
fling,  padded  track  of  a  bear,  and  noted  that 
the  footprints  were  far  apart. 

"He  goin'  fast,  looken'  for  place  sleep  win- 
taire,"  he  muttered.  On  a  ridge  he  was  cross 
ing  later  he  found  a  moose  trail  leading  to  the 
river  beyond;  he  followed  it,  and  crossed  the 
stream  at  a  shallow  ford. 

"De  moose  dey  know  w'ere  good  place,"  he 
chuckled  as  he  waded  to  his  knees.  - 

At  noon  the  next  day  he  reached  the  spot 
he  wished  to  camp  on,  at  Churchill  River,  and 
he  soon  had  a  strong  lean-to  built. 

The  following  weeks  were  spent  in  setting 
traps,  and  collecting  his  fur,  that  was  not  plenti 
ful,  as  luck  seemed  against  him.  Then  he  had 
no  more  cartridges  or  food  and  he  went  back 
to  the  Post.  Michele  was  away  trapping;  so 
were  nearly  all  the  Indians,  save  for  a  few  de 
crepit  old  men  and  squaws  that  sewed  mocca 
sins  and  made  snowshoes. 

He  took  his  fur  to  the  factor.  Twelve 
beaver,  seven  sable,  three  red  fox,  two  sable, 
one  marten,  five  mink  and  eighteen  muskrat. 

"Eighteen  dollars,"  Murchison  said  abrupt 
ly,  examining  the  skins. 

(44) 


SILVER    FOX 


"Non!"  Sebat  shouted.  "For'-five  dol- 
laires!1' 

The  Scotchman  looked  at  him. 

"Ye'r  crazy,  mon,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Mabbe  Ah'm  crazee,  but  you  no  get  dose 
skeens  les  dan  w'at  Ah  say!" 

"Take  'em  away  then,  and  get  out  my  store." 

"Ah  wan'  grub!" 

"So  that's  it,  is't?  Ye  want  this  and  that 
and  t'other  for  naething!  Get  out,  I  tell  ye!" 

Murchison  kept  three  beaver  and  a  marten, 
the  best  of  the  lot. 

"That's  for  the  grub  ye  got  afore." 

"By  diable,  down  h'at  de  'line'  dey  geef " 

"I  don't  care  what  they  give  at  the  line  1  I'm 
running  this  place,  and  what  I  say  stands,  d'ye 
hear?" 

Sullenly  Sebat  took  the  other  skins  and  went 
away. 

By  dint  of  coaxing  and  threatening  he  got  a 
little  flour  here,  some  tea  there,  thus  eking  out 
enough  food  for  a  two  weeks'  hunt.  It  was 
late;  he  slept  that  night  in  Michele's  hut.  The 
next  morning  the  ground  was  deep  with  snow; 
he  put  on  the  caribou-thonged  snowshoes  and 
started  for  the  silver  fox. 

(45) 


SILVER    FOX 


The  way  was  long  and  slow,  the  traveling 
hard,  and  the  cold  bitter  in  its  strength.  The 
white  surfaces  were  indented  by  tracks,  even 
and  stretching  away  somberly  into  the  depths 
of  the  trees. 

Sebat  came  at  last  to  the  muskeg  swamp  and 
built  his  camp.  He  ate  sparingly,  then  slept 
by  starts  while  another  winter's  night  passed, 
the  moon  shining  mystically  on  the  white  of 
the  north  and  creating  deep,  black  shadows. 

As  he  slept  there  came  a  fox  by  the  lean-to. 
It  stooped,  seeing  the  embers  of  the  fire,  and 
stood  there,  motionless,  head  lifted,  dainty 
pointed  ears  thrown  forward  inquiringly;  its 
silvered  coat  reflecting  the  light  rays  that  crept 
through  the  spruce  branches  above.  The  fox 
sniffed  high,  then  low  and  vanished  noiselessly. 

"Hah !  Fox,  by  gar !"  Sebat  said  next  morn 
ing  when  he  started  out  to  set  his  traps,  seeing 
the  track. 

All  day  he  worked.  Down  by  the  frozen 
stream  he  put  out  three  "steels,"  cunningly  hid 
den  by  snow  that  looked  as  if  it  had  fallen  nat 
urally.  This  he  did  by  gathering  it  on  boughs, 
and  tossing  it  in  the  air  over  the  trap;  the  bait 
lay  tempting  on  top. 

(46) 


SILVER    FOX 


In  other  places  he  put  dead-falls  for  marten 
and  sable,  and  at  the  last  took  off  the  tump  line 
(that  he  used  for  a  belt),  sprung  down  a  sturdy 
young  birch,  and  fixed  a  noose  on  a  caribou  trail. 
As  he  shuffled  home,  his  snowshoes  clinking 
sharply,  he  talked  aloud. 

"Dat  Murcheeson?  Sacree,  he  wan  voleur! 
He  don'  get  my  fur  fur  h'eighteen  dollaires! 
B'en  non!" 

The  sound  of  his  voice  was  deadened  by  the 
snow-laden  branches. 

Day  after  day  he  went  to  his  traps,  and  al 
ways  the  same  result — nothing. 

Sometimes  the  bait  was  stolen  (this  was  bad 
as  he  did  not  have  any  to  spare)  ;  again  the 
traps  were  sprung,  but  nobody  was  between  the 
sharp  jaws.  His  food  grew  lower  and  lower; 
then  he  ate  but  once  a  day,  saving  his  scanty 
supply. 

"Mus'  go  back  to-mor',"  he  whispered 
mournfully.  A  thought  came.  He  took  off 
his  fur  cap. 

"Bon  Dieu,  dees  pauv'r  Sebat  h'ave  not'ing, 
onlee  Annette  an'  seex  child'en !  He  wan'  for 
go  see  dem,  an'  mus'  catch  dat  silvaire  fox  for 
to  go  dere."  Satisfied  he  slept. 

(47) 


SILVER    FOX 


The  morning  dawned  red  and  calm,  with  the 
sting  of  frost  and  the  silence  of  daylight.  As 
soon  as  he  could  see,  Sebat  went  the  mile  to  the 
muskeg  swamp  for  the  last  time.  He  looked, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  stared.  A  few  yards  from 
the  timber  edge  was  a  dark  body;  attached  to 
one  of  its  hind  legs  a  steel  trap,  chain  and  clog. 

"De  silvaire  fox!"  he  cried  and  ran  out.  It 
was  stiffened  and  straight — was  the  lithe  form; 
glossy  and  perfect  its  coat,  each  hair  tipped  with 
silver  points,  the  under  mass  pure  gray  and  of 
one  tone.  The  eyes  were  half  closed  and 
glassy,  frozen  in  their  sockets.  Almost  in  awe 
at  its  beauty,  Sebat  released  the  jaws;  the  trap 
clinked  to  the  light  crust.  He  picked  up  the 
body  and  ran  like  mad  to  camp;  sat  down,  the 
fox  in  his  arms,  crooning  like  a  child. 

"Ah  goin'  see  Annette,  Ah  goin'  see  An 
nette;  dey  geef  me  hund'er  dollaires  for  dees," 
he  repeated  over  and  over  again. 

Realizing  that  he  had  no  food  he  packed  his 
load  and  started  for  the  Post  again,  carrying  the 
fox  always. 

At  dark  he  reached  the  store,  hungry,  tired, 
snowshoe  sore,  but  so  happy  and  triumphant. 

"How  dat,  M'sieu  Murcheeson  ?"  he  asked, 
(48) 


SILVER    FOX 


carefully  putting  the  silver  fox  on  the  counter 
and  smoothing  the  glorious  coat  that  shone, 
even  in  the  candle-light. 

The  factor  looked  carelessly,  then  a  gleam 
of  greed  flitted  across  his  face.  He  examined 
thoroughly. 

"Thirty  dollars,"  he  said,  and  put  out  his 
hand  to  take  the  fox. 

Sebat  seemed  not  to  understand;  he  gazed 
at  the  Scotchman  in  astonishment. 

"T'irt'  dollaires?"  he  asked  in  sing-song 
voice. 

"Aye,  mon,  and  a  guid  price,  too!" 

The  trapper  awoke  to  the  bitter  disap 
pointment.  He  struck  fiercely  at  the  hand  that 
was  drawing  the  fox,  his  Silver  Gray  for  An 
nette,  from  him,  and  the  factor  winced.  All 
the  fury  of  the  French  blood  boiled  out,  and 
Sebat  cursed  the  Company  and  the  factor. 

"You  steal  f'm  de  Indians,  dey  starrve  an' 
you  get  deir  monnaie.  Ah'm  goin'  tak'  dees 
to  de  'line'  an'  get  hund'er  dollaires !  You — 
you — you — Ah — sacree,"  he  snarled,  seized  the 
fox  and  darted  out. 

He  ran  headlong  to  Michele's.  It  was  dark 
in  the  hut;  he  strode  in,  and  stood  there  pant- 

(49) 


SILVER    FOX 


ing,  listening  to  the  violent  surging  of  his  heart. 
Silence — stillness  everywhere,  and  he  was  hun 
gry  and  tired.  He  hid  the  fox  under  a  bunk, 
wrapping  it  in  his  jacket,  and  went  back  to  the 
factor. 

"Geef  me  for  h'eat,  for  go  to  'line,'  Ah  geef 
you  all  dose  skeens  Ah  have." 

Murchison  cursed  him.  "Go  to  the  line  and 
be  damned  to  ye,  ye  French  cur!  Ye'll  get 
naething  here!" 

Sebat  went. 

From  tepee  to  tepee  he  tried  to  obtain  enough 
food  for  the  two  hundred  mile  trip,  but  every 
where  there  was  some  excuse.  He  realized  then 
that  the  factor  had  ordered  it  so  among  the 
Indians,  and  that  they  dared  not  disobey. 

In  Michele's  home  he  found  an  old  crust  of 
bread,  hard  as  wood,  but  it  was  food,  and  he 
gnawed  eagerly. 

"Par  Dieu,  Ah'm  goin'  'line'  jus'  same! 
Ah'm  strrong  'nough  for  go  t'ree  day  hongree !" 

Fox  under  his  arm,  snowshoes  on  his  feet, 
he  started  on  the  trail.  The  night  was  black, 
and  snow  clouds  hung  heavy  and  low. 

He  traveled  on  relentlessly,  though  the 
thongs  wore  into  his  ankles  and  his  body  craved 
(50) 


SILVER    FOX 


nourishment  and  rest.  Daylight  came,  grew 
and  broadened,  as  he  was  crossing  a  long  bar 
ren;  then  it  began  to  snow.  Faster  and  faster, 
thicker  and  thicker  came  the  flakes,  deadening 
the  sound  of  his  snowshoes,  clogging  the  swing 
of  his  stride;  but  he  pushed  on,  shifting  the 
fox  from  arm  to  arm. 

Of  a  sudden  he  looked  up  and  saw  a  high 
ridge  before  him.  "Dees  no  de  way,"  he  mut 
tered  and  swung  to  the  left. 

On  and  on  and  on  he  traveled,  head  low  to 
the  blinding  snow  that  swept  across  the  open  in 
whirling  clouds,  urged  by  the  strong  wind.  To 
the  right,  then  to  the  left,  he  struggled.  At 
last  he  knew  that  he  was  lost,  and  he  stood  still. 

Crisply  the  snow  settled  about  him,  lonely 
the  wind  yowled  and  sirened  across  the  wastes. 
Daylight  was  nearly  gone.  He  was  weak  and 
trembling.  Far  in  the  distance,  only  intermit 
tently  visible  through  the  shifting  white,  was  a 
hill. 

"Ah  go  dere,  mabbe  see  w'ere  Ah'm  goinV 
he  muttered  hoarsely. 

Dragging  his  feet  along,  he  fought  his  way; 
stumbling,  slipping,  he  tried  to  reach  the  top — 
and  fell.  He  rose  slowly,  worked  his  way  a  lit- 
(51) 


SILVER    FOX 


tie  farther  and  fell  again.  Up,  more  painfully, 
and  on.  Another  fall,  the  snow  cutting  his  face 
and  trickling  over  his  throat.  On  one  hand  and 
knees  now,  the  silver-gray  fox  weakly  clasped  to 
his  body,  he  strove  to  reach  the  top  of  the  rise. 

A  sense  of  warmth,  of  unutterable  comfort, 
came  over  him. 

"Ah'm  tire',"  he  whispered,  as  he  felt  the 
drowsiness  creep  on  his  giant  frame;  and  he  lay 
still. 

"Ah  mus'  go,  Ah  mus'  go!"  he  gasped,  and 
tried  to  move;  but  the  peace  and  luxurious  rest 
his  body  felt  was  too  great  and  his  brain  could 
enforce  no  action. 

"Ah'm  goin'  die  here — die  ici — jus'  here 
alon' !" 

He  dragged  the  fox  to  his  face.  The  fur  felt 
warm  and  soft. 

"Annette — Annette,"  he  murmured,  "so 
manee,  manee  leetle  chil — d'n !" 

The  snow  fell  seething  on  the  still  figure;  cov 
ering  it  lightly  at  first,  then  blending  its  shape 
with  the  whiteness  of  everything.  Finally  the 
place  was  level  with  the  rest.  The  wind  shrieked 
spasmodically  and  the  white  clouds  tossed  and 
drifted. 

(52) 


Love  in   the  Wilderness 


Love  in   the   Wilderness 


I 


"^TTTTHERE     is    Chictou?"   Constable 

\/l/  Clyde,  of  the  R.  N.  W.  M.  Police, 
v  T  asked  the  girl  for  the  third  time. 

She  was  quick-witted  and  clever,  this  half- 
breed  woman  of  the  North.  Tossing  her  small 
head  derisively — "Gon'  mabbe  somew'ere,  Ah 
tol'  to  you  1" 

The  Constable  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of 
the  rough  table,  one  leg  swinging,  the  drip  of  the 
snow-water  falling  from  the  moccasin  in  a  little 
stream  to  the  floor.  "Come,  come,  Nanon; 
there's  no  use  in  lying  about  it.  He's  been  here 
to-day!" 

"How  you — ?"  she  began. 

"A — ah  !"  He  leaned  forward  quickly.  "He 
has  been  here,  then!"  He  chuckled  softly. 

The  girl's  eyes  flamed,  but  she  controlled  her 
self,  humming  a  French-Canadian  voyageur's 
song.  Her  voice  was  soft,  and  the  cadence  filled 

(55) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

the  interior  of  the  log  cabin  with  gentle,  lulling 
effect. 

Clyde  listened,  his  body  tired  from  long  miles 
by  snowshoes  on  the  trail  of  Chictou  Benard, 
"wanted"  for  robbing  the  Hudson  Bay  Com 
pany's  Store  at  Spirit  River.  The  track  had  led 
straight  to  the  cabin,  fresh  made  that  morning; 
Clyde  knew  it;  now  he  sought  further  informa 
tion.  "Do  you  remember  when  we  used  to 
dance  together  at  Dunvegan?" 

She  looked  at  him  sharply.  "Si,  Ah  'mem- 
baire." 

Silence  then,  broken  only  by  the  snow  that  fell 
slowly  through  the  pine  and  fir  outside,  dropping 
with  a  faint,  almost  inaudible  seething. 

The  half  light  showed  a  clean,  square  room 
with  a  big  bunk  of  boughs  in  one  corner,  tri 
angular  fireplace  in  another;  old  clothes,  traps, 
unfinished  snowshoes,  caribou  hides  and  a  few 
bearskins  filling  up  the  rest  of  the  floor-space 
under  the  low  eaves.  Clyde's  leg  swung  on,  the 
water  dropping  now.  "Look  here,  Nanon," 
and  he  went  toward  her,  "it  doesn't  mean  much 
to  Chictou — six  months  at  the  most,  and  I've 
got  to  find  him.  I  will  too!"  he  added. 
(56) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

"Seex  mois !  An'  who  goin'  tak'  care  de  me 
dose  taimes,  hein?" 

"You  can  get  somebody  to  come  up  with  you; 
any  of  the  boys  would  be  glad  to,"  he  answered, 
unthinkingly. 

"Beas'f  Diable!"  she  screamed  at  him,  quiv 
ering. 

Clyde  was  startled  for  an  instant.  "I'm  sorry, 
Nanon;  I  didn't  know  you  cared  so  much  for 
him." 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  in  her  tanned  caribou 
shirt  and  skirt,  till  her  black  hair  mingled  with 
the  gloom  overhead,  so  it  seemed  to  the  Consta 
ble.  "Et  no  for  you,  Poleec',  to  mak'  t'ink  t'all 
'bout  Chictou  an'  me !  Ve  tres  good  liv'  wid'out 
you  t'ink!" 

Night  settled  slowly  on  the  vast  forests,  caus 
ing  shapes  to  vanish,  outlines  that  were  against 
the  sky  only  remaining.  Snow  drifted  more 
slowly  from  the  heavens,  the  flakes  great,  white, 
and  damp,  heavy  with  the  moisture  of  the  lower 
air. 

"Since  you  won't  save  him  a  long,  hard  trail 
trying  to  dodge  me,  I'll  have  to " 

"Bo'  jou',  petite!  De  Poleec'  no  fin' " 

(57) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

The  great  gaunt  figure  in  the  doorway  stopped, 
seeing  the  Constable. 

Clyde  recognized  his  man.  The  girl  tried  to 
hold  him,  but  he  tore  from  her,  drawing  his 
revolver.  "Halt!"  The  flitting  shadow  of  a 
form  vanishing  among  the  trees  answered  him. 
He  fired  two  shots. 

The  girl  laughed  hysterically  as  the  Constable 
rushed  into  the  night.  She  leaned  against  the 
doorway,  her  hands  clenched  tightly.  "Allez, 
Chic'l  Allez— queeck!  Ah,  mon  Dieu  !"  The 
tones,  loud  and  piercing  because  of  her  fear, 
vibrated  in  the  dark  mass  of  branches,  as  though 
the  forest  grudgingly  permitted  them  a  tortuous 
path  in  its  labyrinth  of  needles. 

Solemn  and  still  was  the  night;  the  lonely,  far 
away  hoo-hoo-hooo  of  an  owl  floated  with  inde 
scribable  suggestion  of  the  absolute  wilderness; 
and  from  the  barren  beyond  the  shrill  yelping  of 
foxes  at  play  came  sharply.  The  snowfall  ceased 
as  she  waited,  the  flakes  diminishing  in  numbers 
till  but  a  few  pirouetted  to  earth.  No  more 
came  then;  and  the  breathless  silence  of  a  mid 
winter  snow-night  was  over  everything. 

"Cr-ang!" 

She  shivered  when  the  faint  report  struck  on 
(58) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

her  ears.  Very  distant  it  was,  but  it  brought 
visions  of  what  might  be,  and  she  began  to  cry. 
Softly  at  first  the  tears  draggled  down  her  face. 
Then,  as  no  further  sound  came,  she  cried  bit 
terly,  her  sobs  waking  vague  echoes  among  the 
trees. 

"Chic',  Chic'/  you  keel,  Ah'm  know!"  she 
muttered  brokenly,  and  staggered  to  the  bunk, 
throwing  herself  on  it,  her  body  racked  with  sad 
ness.  A  long  time  she  lay  there,  whispering, 
moaning  to  herself,  while  the  hours  fled  on  in 
silence  and  cold. 

The  crunching  of  snow  aroused  her.  She 
sat  up. 

"Lost  him,  Nanon,  at  the  top  of  Moose  Hill; 
he  got  his  snowshoes  on  there  before  I  could 
reach  him !" 

She  stared  at  Clyde,  her  eyes  heavy  and  puffed 
with  tears.  He  lighted  a  candle,  and  looked  at 
her  in  the  yellow  flare.  "I'm  sorry,  girl;  but  I 
must  get  him;  it's  my  duty!"  He  spoke  re 
gretfully. 

"You  no  get!"  she  murmured. 

"I  will!"  his  voice  was  strong.  "By  daylight 
I'll  find  his  snowshoe  trail  and  follow  it,  even  if 
it  leads  me  to  Eskimo  House!"  He  turned  to 
(59) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

close  the  door — and  missed  the  flash  that  crossed 
her  face. 

"Mabbe,"  she  breathed  softly,  standing  up. 
"iMabbe,  Cly' !" 

She  gathered  chips  from  the  little  wood  pile 
by  the  hearth,  and  knelt,  blowing  on  the  tiny 
blaze.  He  watched  her  graceful  figure,  as  in 
lithe  abandonment  it  was  bent  in  rounded  lines. 
The  fire  grew  rapidly,  showing  her  features  as 
if  they  were  curved  in  light  brown  marble.  The 
shadows  danced  over  her  limbs,  striking  a  bold 
outline  of  her  on  the  logs  behind.  Her  black 
eyes  'vere  big,  reflecting  the  leaping  flames  as 
tvould  tiny  mirrors. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  sleep  here,  Nanon?" 

"Non!"  She  stirred  the  fire  thoughtfully. 
"Non;  you  Poleec',  Cly',  an'  beeg  Engleesh 
homme;  you  sle'p  een  cabane,  s'posen'  you 
like !" 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk.  "There's 
many  an  English  woman  that  wouldn't  have  the 
confidence  and  trust  in  me  that  you  have!"  he 
whispered. 

She  heard  him,  but  did  not  understand. 

"You  say  som'ting?" 

"No — nothing,  Nanon." 
(60) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 


A  curious  tense  look  in  her  eyes,  she  got  some 
food  for  him,  because  the  Police  can  comman 
deer  sustenance  and  shelter  anywhere  when  on 
duty. 

The  meal  finished,  he  signed  a  slip  from  his 
record-book.  She  tucked  it  in  her  shirt. 

"Merci." 

He  lighted  his  pipe  and  went  to  the  door. 
"It'll  be  daylight  in  four  hours,  Nanon.  Have 
you  a  spare  blanket?  I'll  take  a  nap  by  the 
fire." 

The  girl  tossed  him  a  rabbit-skin  covering. 

He  shoved  his  pipe  in  his  pocket,  took  off  the 
wet  moccasins,  and  rolled  up  in  the  deliciously 
warm  fur,  his  arm  for  a  pillow.  She  blew  out 
the  candle,  and  crept  on  the  bunk,  drawing  the 
rough  coverings  over  her. 

The  fire  crackled  sharply,  myriads  of  sparks 
ascending  the  crooked  flue.  The  embers  cast  a 
dull  red  glow  over  his  figure  at  rest  near  the 
hearth. 

No  wind,  no  whisper  of  breeze  disturbed  the 
stillness  outside.  The  gigantic  trees  loomed  tall 
and  graven  as  images  against  the  dull  skies, 
their  branches  blurred  into  a  hazy  denseness  of 
silent  black.  The  snow-clouds,  far  up  in  the 
(61) 


LOVE    IN   THE    WILDERNESS 

heavens,  moved  on  sluggishly,  but  the  wind  that 
pushed  them  did  not  reach  the  wilderness  of  the 
North. 

The  Constable  snored  then,  his  grunts  and 
indrawings  of  breath  sounding  sleepily  in  the 
stillness  of  the  cabin. 

The  girl  pushed  her  coverings  aside,  inch  by 
inch.  She  got  to  the  floor  without  a  sound, 
listening  to  the  breathings  of  the  man  stretched 
at  her  feet.  She  looked  down  at  him  in  the 
dying  firelight,  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  her  eyes. 
"You  tell  too  mooch,  Cly' !  You  mooch  beeg 
fool!" 

She  stole  to  where  an  extra  pair  of  her  hus 
band's  snowshoes  hung  on  a  peg;  got  them 
down,  opened  the  door  with  but  few  light  creak- 
ings  that  did  not  waken  the  man,  and  slipped 
out,  closing  the  aperture  with  the  greatest  care. 
The  thonged  hoops  under  her  arm,  she  sped 
away  into  the  gloom  of  the  forest,  vanishing, 
instantly,  in  the  silent  darkness. 

Slowly  the  snow  began  to  fall  when  she  had 
been  gone  but  a  short  time,  and  with  it  daylight 
grew  apace.  Faint,  and  as  a  thread  of  reflec 
tion,  the  pale  lights  of  a  gray  dawn,  tinged  with 
scarlet,  appeared  through  the  trees  toward  the 
(62) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

east,  across  the  Big  Barrens.  The  red  of  the 
rising  sun,  glowing  for  several  moments  through 
the  quiet  thick  veil  of  snow,  was  peculiarly  angry 
and  foreboding;  showing  the  flakes  ruddily  for 
an  instant. 

Clouds  drifted  then,  and  the  dreary  dullness 
of  day  followed. 

Clyde  stirred,  muttered  in  half-sleep,  turned 
over;  remembering  his  work  then,  he  sprang 
up.  "Nanon!"  seeing  the  light  filtering  in 
the  forest  round  the  cabin.  He  looked  at 
the  bunk.  "Gone  for  wood!"  stretching  and 
yawning. 

"D it  all!"  as  he  pulled  on  the  damp 

moccasins.  "The  devil  of  a  job  having  to  travel 
after  that  poor  trapper  again!"  He  yanked 
viciously  at  the  thongs.  "And  all  for  that 
dashed  Company!  It'll  be  hard  on  the  girl  for 
six  months,  but" — he  sighed,  staring  at  the  cold 
hearthstones — "it's  none  of  my  business;  I've 
got  to  get  him,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it !"  He 
laced  the  thongs,  grumbling.  "She  trusted  me !" 
he  murmured,  watching  the  few  bits  of  white 
snow  that  dropped  from  above. 

He  was  hungry. 

"Where'd  she  go?"  he  asked  himself  aloud 
(63) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

finally,  when  an  hour  passed  and  no  sound  of 
the  girl. 

The  snow  had  ceased  entirely;  a  vague,  des 
ultory  wind  whined  in  the  tree  tops  with  mourn 
ful  sound.  The  loneliness  of  it  all  moved  him 
deeply. 

"Home,"  he  murmured,  "home — and  so  far, 
so  very  far  away!"  His  eyes  became  moist  as 
he  stood  in  the  sullen,  chill  light.  "And  she — 
ha!"  he  laughed  harshly,  the  grim  sound  ugly 
under  the  forest.  "She  in  England,  and  I — 
where,  and  what?" 

The  bitterness  of  his  position  sank  further 
than  ever  before  in  his  mind. 

"A  policeman  whose  work  is  to  track,  to  trail, 
to  hound  down  wretched  beggars,  who  only  ask 
to  be  allowed  to  exist !"  A  dry  sob  came  from 
his  throat.  "A  little  love  from  Her,  just  a  little 
confidence — far  less  than  this  half-breed 
showed,"  he  snarled,  his  anger  growing — "far 

less,  and  I  should  have  been Rot!"  he 

said,  quietly.  "Duty,  duty,  DUTY  for  me  now ! 
Here's  at  it!" 

He  belted  his  side  arms  a  hole  tighter,  picked 
up  his  snowshoes  by  the  door,  and  swung  away 
to  the  north.  He  turned  when  the  cabin  was 
(64) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

barely  visible,  among  the  massive  trunks: 
"Good-by,  Nanon;  when  you  get  back  you  will 
know  that  I'm  after  him!"  His  voice  echoed 
dully.  "And  sorry  to  have  to  do  it,  because  you 
love  him!" 

Unerringly  he  traveled  through  the  dense 
timber-lands,  startling  foxes  and  sables  from 
their  meanderings  in  search  of  food,  frightening 
the  ptarmigan  that  scratched  for  pine-bark  lust 
ily.  They  broke  from  his  path  with  trembling 
wings,  and  disappeared  into  a  somewhere 
beyond. 

In  an  hour  he  reached  the  little  valley  at  the 
foot  of  Moose  Hill.  "Last  night's  flurry  won't 
hide  his  trail  much!"  he  muttered,  working  his 
way  up  the  steep  side.  He  stopped  when  nearly 
at  the  top. 

Plainly  visible  through  a  light  cover  of  white 
a  snowshoe  trail  crossed  his  course. 

"I  thought  it  was  farther  on!"  He  followed 
it  for  several  yards.  "No;  this  is  it!  I  know 
Chictou's  make  of  shoe!" 

He  got  out  his  pipe,  lighted  it  and  puffed, 
resting. 

The  gray  North  was  still,  save  for  the  spas 
modic  wind.  Below  him,  stretching  out  in  a 
(65) 


LOVE    IN   THE    WILDERNESS 

vastness  of  trees,  the  forest  dwindled  away  to 
the  horizon.  The  fir  under  which  he  stood 
murmured  sibilantly. 

"Off  again !"  He  strode  on,  snowshoes  on 
his  feet  now,  that  he  might  travel  the  faster. 
Over  hills  and  through  valleys,  across  frozen 
streams,  and  along  their  snow-crowded  banks, 
in  and  out  of  the  forest — when  it  fringed  long 
barrens;  across  them  sometimes,  he  traveled  on, 
his  snowshoes  clacking  in  the  silence. 

The  wind  came  in  his  face.  "D curious 

the  breeze  should  change  so  suddenly!"  He 
strode  on,  tireless,  following  the  trail  that  grew 
clearer  and  clearer.  "I've  got  him !" 

After  hours  of  work,  and  sticking  close  to 
the  snowshoe  marks,  he  saw  the  cabin  in  front 
of  him.  "The  man's  a  fool,"  he  whispered, 
stealing  on — "to  leave  a  trail  like  that — or  he 
must  think  me  one !" 

He  got  to  the  door  noiselessly.  "My  pris 
oner,  Benard !"  he  shouted,  revolver  in  hand. 

"Me?"  the  girl  asked,  taking  off  her  wet 
socks,  eyes  open  wide  in  surprise — "Me?" 

He  searched  the  interior  rapidly  with  his 
eyes — no  one  there  but  the  woman,  and  no  possi 
ble  place  for  a  man  to  hide.  He  went  outside, 
(66) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

studying  the  scarcely  disturbed  snow  of  the  little 
clearing — no  moccasin  track,  no  trail  of  any 
kind.  "And  yet  his  shoes  led  to  the  door!" 

He  went  in. 

"Where  did "     He  stopped.     The  girl 

was  watching  him  quizzically,  a  lurking  smile 
round  her  lips,  her  black  eyes  dancing.  Slowly 
suspicion  came  on  him. 

"How  in  the  world "  he  whispered,  look 
ing  about  "Ah!  that's  it!" 

Chictou's  extra  pair  of  snowshoes  stood  drip 
ping  in  the  darkest  corner;  her  heavy,  wet  stock 
ings  were  spread  on  a  stool  by  the  fire.  Her 
hair  was  damp  on  her  forehead,  with  exertion. 

He  bolstered  his  weapon  slowly,  the  snap  of 
the  hammer,  as  he  half-cocked  it,  sounding 
sharply. 

Nanon  squatted  before  the  blaze,  her  long, 
tapering  hands  spread  to  the  heat.  He  stood 
over  her,  arms  folded. 

"You  got  me  that  time,  Nanon!" 

There  was  no  anger  in  his  voice,  and  his  eyes 
were  kind.  The  girl,  with  a  woman's  quick 
instinct,  felt  the  attitude  of  his  mind. 

"Ah  do  eet  onlee  for  sauf  Chic' — da's  all; 
you  no  mooch  angry  weet  Nanon  ?" 
(67) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

"Not  angry,  Nanon;  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be, 
having  traveled  a  good  many  hard  miles  on  your 
trail!" 

The  cleverness  of  her  scheme  made  him 
laugh,  and  the  sound  filled  the  small  spaces 
pleasantly. 

"No,  not  angry.  You  saved  him  this  time  by 
the  use  of  your  wits,  by  the  hardest  kind  of  work 
in  your  body;  but  I'll  get  him  some  day,  when 
you  are  not  watching!" 

"Eet  hav'  to  be  lak'  dat!  Wen  me  dere,  no 
catch  Chic',  Cly' !" 

He  stared  at  her  moodily  then,  the  fire  snap 
ping  and  glowing,  she  sitting  at  his  feet,  looking 
up  at  him.  "You  love  him  very  much,  Nanon? 
He's  kind  to  you  ?  Takes  care  of  you  ?" 

She  nodded  vehemently.  "Me  love — si !  He 
good  to  Nanon — si!" 

She  leaped  to  her  feet,  one  hand  on  his  arm, 
face  close  to  his,  her  hair  falling  in  great  luxuri 
ant  quantities  about  her  shoulders.  In  her  ex 
citement  she  spoke  in  the  Ojibway  language; 
now  and  then  he  could  understand  a  few  words, 
and  from  them  gathered  the  girl's  fierce  devo 
tion  for  her  husband. 

"It's  all  right,  Nanon;  sssh,"  as  tears 

(68) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

came;  "it's  all  right,  but  I'll  have  to  get  him 
just  the  same!" 

She  pushed  him  away.  "You  Engleesh,"  she 
said,  with  slow  precision,  "no  know  w'at  de 
Canadienne  love,  she  ees!  Bah — allez  !" 

"No!"  taking  up  his  snowshoes  and  mits — 
"no,  we  don't,  Nanon.  Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou' !"  He 
started  away  to  the  south. 

She  watched  him  out  of  sight  in  the  forest. 
"Ah  sauf  Chic',  jus'  same!" 


II 


ON  a  wild,  stormy  night,  Clyde  pushed  ahead 
against  a  driving,  biting  snow,  that  stung  his 
face  and  clogged  his  way,  bound  for  the  Police 
shanty  at  Spirit  River.  The  distances  were  but 
yards,  and  each  one  had  to  be  fought  for  in  the 
howling  fury  of  the  wind.  It  tugged  and 
lashed  at  his  form,  creeping  up  his  sleeves,  chill 
ing  and  strong.  He  stopped  to  rest,  and  turned 
his  back  that  he  might  open  his  eyes  fully  and 
breathe  more  easily. 

"This  is  a  bad  one!"     He  tried  to  light  his 
pipe,  but  the  tobacco  was  damp  with  the  sweat 
of  his  body,  and  would  not  draw. 
(69) 


LOVE    IN   THE    WILDERNESS 

He  went  on  slowly,  head  bent,  snowshoes 
lifting  hard.  Over  Moose  Hill  and  down  Long 
Gulch  he  traveled.  The  storm  abated;  the  gusts 
grew  weaker,  and  the  snow  ceased  of  a  sudden. 
Daylight  came  little  by  little ;  with  it  a  breeze — 
stillness.  He  swung  on  fast  now,  hungry  for 
the  food  and  heat  that  awaited  him  beyond. 
"What ?" 

A  rounded  shape  on  a  little  hillside  caught 
his  eyes.  It  was  not  quite  covered  with  snow, 
being  sheltered  by  a  group  of  young  birches. 

"A  caribou  dead,  maybe!"  and  he  kept  on, 
looking  at  the  gray-brown  thing  as  he  passed  it. 

A  strange  feeling  came  over  him — that  he 
must  go  and  see  what  it  was. 

He  swerved  from  his  course,  laboring  up  the 
hill,  and  brushed  the  snow  from  the  figure. 

"It's  a  woman,  by  God!"  He  slipped  off  his 
snowshoes,  that  he  might  kneel  beside  her,  and 
turned  the  body  over.  "Nanon!" 

The  girl's  heart  beat  faintly,  as  with  trembling 
fingers  he  felt  under  her  shirt.  Working  des 
perately  now,  he  chafed  her  hands,  slapping 
them  with  all  his  strength.  He  breathed  his 
warm  breath  into  her  mouth,  and  lifted  the  eye 
lids  for  signs  of  returning  consciousness.  An 
(70) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

hour  he  toiled,  sweat  pouring  from  him.  He 
gathered  the  hot  drops  from  his  face  and  put 
them  over  her  heart,  on  her  skin. 

"Thank  God !"  he  groaned,  as  the  girl  moved, 
opening  her  eyes. 

"Chic',  Chic',"  she  called  faintly.  Then,  see 
ing  the  Constable,  she  shivered.  "He  gon' 
'way!"  her  first  thought  to  hide  the  whereabouts 
of  Benard  from  "de  PoleecV 

"Are  you  frozen  anywhere,  Nanon?  Answer 
me!" 

She  looked  at  him  dazedly.  "De  feet,  mabbe, 
Aht'ink!" 

He  ripped  off  his  capote,  put  it  under  her 
head,  gathered  wood  as  fast  as  he  could  find  it 
dry  enough,  and  lighted  the  little  heap.  When 
it  flamed,  he  drew  off  her  moccasins  and  stock 
ings.  The  small  feet  were  marble  white,  and 
hard  to  his  fingers. 

"Good  God  !"  he  moaned,  rubbing  them  pow 
erfully  with  snow.  As  it  melted  in  his  hands  he 
gathered  more,  and  rubbed  till  his  arms  ached 
from  wrist  to  shoulder.  The  sensation  roused 
the  girl  thoroughly;  she  lifted  her  head,  watch 
ing  him  at  work. 

"You  Engleesh — good  mans!" 
(70 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

"Never  mind  that,  girl;  can  you  feel?"  pinch 
ing  her  foot  sharply. 

She  drew  it  up.     "Ai — dat  hurt!" 

"Ah-h-h!  Saved,  then!"  He  pinched  the 
other;  she  flinched.  He  rubbed  on  till  he  could 
see  the  veins  purple  and  swell  with  the  rush  of 
liberated  blood.  Then  he  gathered  her  in  his 
arms  and  shook  her  up  and  down  till  her  cheeks 
were  flushed  and  her  breath  came  audibly.  Ex 
hausted,  he  laid  her  on  the  capote,  and  wrung 
her  stockings  damp-dry. 

"What  were  you  doing  out  here?" 

"Ah  go  see  trap  fo'  Chic' !" 

"Where  is  he?" 

"No  tell  you !"  Her  eyes  glittered.  "Ah  die 
een  snow  bee-for'  Ah  tell !" 

The  doggedness  of  her  bravery  in  her  suffer 
ing  awed  Clyde. 

"Why  doesn't  he  look  after  you  better  than 
this? — Hell!"  he  cursed — "to  let  you  tend  a 
line  when  a  storm  was  coming!" 

"Ah  los'  w'en  de  win'  she  come  so  bad." 

"Does  he  know  where  you  are?" 

"Si !"     Her  head  moved  up  and  down. 

"Why  doesn't  he  come,  then,  when  you  didn't 
get  home  last  night?" 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

"Ah  don'  know!" 

Silence  between  the  two,  as  the  shifting 
breeze  whispered  about  them,  fanning  the  fire 
by  spurts. 

"Can  you  walk,  Nanon?"  He  lifted  her  to 
her  feet. 

"Oh — h — h!"  she  cried,  when  her  weight 
came  on  them.  She  sagged  in  his  arms.  "No 
can!" 

"I'll  have  to  carry  you  home,  then!" 

"Non — non!"     She  fought  him. 

"Why  not?" 

She  was  silent,  writhing  slightly  as  the  throbs 
of  returning  life  in  her  feet  tortured  her. 

Clyde  knew  why,  but  he  said  nothing.  He 
laced  on  his  snowshoes,  and  picked  her  up,  one 
arm  under  her  knees  and  the  other  under  her 
shoulders,  and  plodded  to  the  north,  her  weight 
dragging  his  body  forward. 

"Non!  non!"  she  screamed,  struggling  and 
twisting.  He  held  her  close,  his  great  strength 
overcoming  her.  Her  endeavors  grew  less  and 
less;  the  heat  of  his  body  soothing  her  mentally 
and  physically. 

She  slept  in  his  arms. 

The  miles  passed  very  slowly;  his  body  ached 

(73) 


LOVE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

from  her  weight,  but  he  pushed  on,  teeth 
clenched,  legs  working  automatically. 

"Arretel" 

He  swung  on  his  shoes  at  the  voice  behind 
him. 

Chictou  Benard,  face  drawn  out  of  shape  with 
anxiety,  came  straight  to  him ! 

"Nanon,  cherie!"  he  mumbled,  kissing  the 
sleeping  girl  passionately — paying  no  attention 
to  the  Constable.  He  knelt,  and  covered  the 
little  brown  hands  with  his  face,  Clyde  still  hold 
ing  her. 

"Ah'm  readee  go  weet  you,  Poleec',  w'en  you 
say  so.  Par  Dieu,  Ah  t'ink  ma  leetle  girrl  los' 
an'  die,  an'  folio'  de  track." 

She  awoke,  hearing  the  last  words. 

"Ah  be'n  dead  aussi,  only  Cly',  he  come ! 
Ah — ai — !"  as  she  remembered;  "go  queeck, 
Chic'— allez!" 

The  gaunt  trapper  stood  up,  huge  on  his 
snowshoes. 

"Non — Ah  no  go;  dat  Poleec'  homme  he  sauf 
yo'r  laif !  Ah  go  weet  heem,  s'posen'  he  want 
me." 

She  trembled  in  Clyde's  arms  and  sobbed. 
"Chic',  w'at  Ah  do  seex  mont'  weed'out  you?" 
(74) 


LOVE    IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

She  writhed  out  of  the  Constable's  arms,  regard 
less  of  the  pain  in  her  feet.  "Chic' !"  kissing 
him,  her  arms  about  his  swarthy  neck — "Chic', 
oh— h,  Chic'!" 

Thus  they  stood,  the  three,  in  the  stillness  of 
the  forests,  the  snow  as  a  sharp  background 
against  their  figures. 

Clyde  coughed  harshly — making  up  his  mind. 
"You,  Benard,  take  her  home,  and  don't  let  her 
tend  a  trap  line  in  a  storm!" 

The  girl  was  the  first  to  realize  what  he 
meant.  She  flung  herself  at  his  knees,  clutching 
them. 

He  lifted  her  till  her  face  was  on  a  level  with 
his  own.  "Remember,  Nanon,  that  an  English 
man  well  enough  knows  love  when  he  sees  it!" 

Her  eyes  burned  into  his  for  an  instant.  "Ah 
'membaire !"  she  whispered. 

"Take  her  home,  Benard,  and  keep  out  of  my 
way — unless  you  want  six  months!" 

The  trapper  took  off  his  fur  cap.  "Le  Bon 
Dieu  w'el  t'ank  you  for  dees,  Poleec',  an'  Chic- 
tou  Benard,  he  mak'  beeg  merci !" 

The  giant  figure,  before  Clyde  could  resist, 
kissed  his  hand.  The  Constable  helped  him  to 
get  the  girl  firmly  on  his  back. 

(75) 


LOVE    IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

"Au  r'voir,  Chictou  ! — bo'  jou — bo'  jou  !" 

"Bo'  jou — bo'  jou  !"  the  girl  answered,  a  deep 
gratitude  in  her  eyes. 

Benard  turned.  "Ah  no  forget  dees!"  he 
said,  and  plodded  away,  the  girl  clinging  to  his 
shoulders. 

Clyde  saw  them  out  of  sight  among  the  sear 
black  trunks  of  the  forest. 

"That's  Love!"  he  muttered  sadly,  striking 
off  for  home. 


(76) 


Friends 


Friends 

"y    TOLLA,   Niko!"    Andre   La   Farge 

1       1      shouted    lustily,    as    his   canoe    ap- 

M       M     preached  the  other. 

"Eh,  la  has,  where  go?"  answered  a  powerful 
voice. 

The  two  canoes  drifted  together  and  were  the 
only  specks  that  marred  the  placid  surface  of  Lac 
du  Mirage.  The  still  waters  reached  away  on 
every  side  to  the  distant  green  shores.  Each 
dawdling  cloud  was  mirrored  faithfully  and  the 
heat  was  great.  Here  and  there  the  swirls  of 
trout  broke  the  flatness  and  little  bubbles  floated, 
round  and  iridescent. 

"Phu-i-i !"  Niko  Detanges  mopped  his  face 
with  a  large  red  handkerchief  that  seemed  to 
intensify  the  temperature  of  the  torpid  air. 

"Ah  go  ovaire  to  de  store  for  buy  som'ting 
for  to  mak'  de  trap  bairn  by;  where  go  toi ?" 

"Tak'  de  grub  to  dose  mans  w'at  mak'  feesh 
and  la  chasse  up  dere  on  Portage  du  Rat."  La 
Farge  pointed  to  several  bundles  that  lay  in  the 
bottom  of  his  canoe. 

(79) 


FRIENDS 


"You  got  tabac',  Andre?  Ah  leeve  dat  leet' 
piece  Ah  had  at  de  camp  las'  night." 

"Certainement,"  the  other  answered,  and 
pulled  out  a  dirty  half  plug  of  black  tobacco. 
He  passed  it  across  and  watched  Detanges  idly 
as  he  laid  his  paddle  over  his  knees  and  filled  his 
pipe. 

"La !"  the  latter  exclaimed,  as  he  lighted  the 
stubby  bowl  and  inhaled  great  breaths  of  the 
harsh  smoke.  "Ve  go  togedder  leet'  taim !" 

The  two  took  up  their  paddles  again  and  the 
canoes  moved  forward  silently  over  the  calm 
waters,  scarce  creating  ripples.  The  sun  shone 
with  hot  northern  summer  brilliancy,  piercing 
the  green  depths  with  long  rayonnings;  the  air 
was  breathless,  humid  and  still.  Ahead  the 
two  far-off  mountains  loomed  hazy  and  indis 
tinct,  dark  colored  at  their  bases,  their  peaks 
gray  and  overhung  with  mists. 

"Ah  goin'  be  marrie  dam'  queeck,"  Detanges 
announced  abruptly.  La  Farge  looked  at  him 
and  chuckled. 

"You  be  marrie !    Dat  fine.    Who  de  girrl  ?" 

"OF  Batiste  Victeur,  hees  girrl." 

La  Farge  started  violently;  his  big  hands 
clutched  the  paddle  till  the  muscles  stood  out  in 
(80) 


FRIENDS 

knots  on  his  bare  forearms.  The  gray  eyes  nar 
rowed  and  snapped  and  the  square  underjaw 
advanced  aggressively. 

"Ah — goin' — be — marrie — too!"  His  voice 
quivered,  and  he  looked  straight  ahead. 

"By  gar,  dat  magnifique !  Ve  be  marrie,  you 
an'  moi,  de  sam'  taim,  hein?  Vhat  fille  you 
got?" 

"Ol' — Batiste — Victeur — hees — girrl !"  An 
dre's  tones  were  of  deep  emotion  barely  sup 
pressed.  Niko's  face  contorted  into  an  ugly 
snarl. 

"Bon  Dieu,  how  you  tell  dat?"  he  asked 
through  his  teeth. 

"Ah  goin'  be  marrie  to  dat  girrl,"  La  Farge 
answered  stolidly. 

The  two  let  their  canoes  drift.  Then  De- 
tanges  controlled  himself  sufficiently  to  articu 
late,  though  his  breathing  was  deep  and  his 
nostrils  contracted  and  expanded. 

"Andre,  you  an'  me  be'n  fren's  dis  long  taim; 
ve  have  mak'  chasse  togedder,  ve  have  sleep 
togedder,  h'eat,  drink  togedder.  Tell  to  moi 
v'at  you  talk  dis  Vay  h'about?" 

"Ah  no  talk  netting  onlee  dat  Ah  goin'  be 
marrie  to  dat  ol'  Victeur  hees  girrl,"  the  broad- 
(81) 


FRIENDS 


shouldered  man  in  the  other  canoe  answered 
quietly.  "She  tell  to  me  dat  she  loove  moi  an' 
dat  she  goin'  to  marrie  moi,  das  all !" 

He  looked  his  friend  squarely  in  the  face  and 
met  the  flashing  eyes  steadily. 

"Ah  goin'  h'ave  dat  leet'  girrl,  Andre !  She 
tell  to  me  dat  she  loove  Niko  de  bessis !"  De- 
tanges  shrugged  his  massive  frame  as  if  his 
answer  left  no  room  for  doubt  on  the  other's 
part. 

"An'  by  diable  Ah  tell  to  you  dat  she  no  can 
h'ave  us  deux!  She  mus'  marrie  you  or  me;  no 
can  do  dat  for  two;  v'at  mans  have  dat  girrl?" 

The  canoes  were  side  by  side  now,  their  occu 
pants  sitting  immovable  on  the  last  thwart.  A 
light  breeze  grew  on  the  lake,  fanning  its  waters 
into  faint  undulations  that  dimpled  along  noise 
lessly.  The  clouds  overhead  swung  on,  at  first 
slowly,  creating  dark  shadows  that  scurried  over 
the  surface  ghostlike  and  slow,  then  vanished 
into  the  distance.  The  canoes  turned  with  the 
wind  that  grew. 

"Ah  no  know  how  feex,"  Niko  whispered. 

Andre  thought  for  an  instant. 

"Fight?"  he  inquired,  tentatively.  The  other 
stared  at  him. 

(82) 


FRIENDS 


"Mak'  fight  wid  toi,  Andre?" 

La  Farge  nodded.  "Weed  knife,"  he  added, 
solemnly. 

"Ah  mak'  fight  den;  ve  go  to  de  shore  an' 
feenesh  dees  by  dam'  queeck!"  Detanges  de 
cided. 

They  started  for  the  nearest  shore  silently. 
The  light  draught  had  grown  into  a  steady 
breeze ;  this  in  turn  grew  to  a  strong  wind.  Long 
wavelets  curled  about  the  men,  breaking  liquidly 
into  foam.  The  sun  was  gone.  Dull  and  dark 
gray  clouds  gathered  in  swiftly  moving  masses 
across  the  heavens,  and  over  in  the  southwestern 
horizon  huge  banks  of  black  thunder  heads 
grouped  themselves  and  advanced  deliberately. 

When  Niko  and  Andre  grounded  their  canoes 
a  muffled  rumbling  sounded.  The  beach  they 
were  on  was  a  small  one,  fringed  by  tall  pine  and 
hemlock.  The  underbrush  was  thick  and  waved 
in  the  wind  that  now  whistled  and  shrilled 
through  the  forest. 

"Mak'  feex  for  fight!" 

Detanges  drew  his  long  knife  and  tore  off  his 
shirt,  showing  the  powerful  chest  and  solid  mus 
cled  arms.  La  Farge  took  off  his  shirt  more 
slowly,  disclosing  a  gigantic  pair  of  biceps,  mus- 
(83) 


FRIENDS 


cles  that  stretched  the  skin  over  them  to  the 
semblance  of  brown  marble.  His  shoulders 
were  smaller  than  those  of  his  friend,  but  they 
were  more  wiry  and  supple.  The  knife  he  pulled 
from  its  sheath  was  shorter  than  that  of  Detan- 
ges,  but  thicker  at  the  haft  and  double  edged. 

"Pret?"  Niko  shouted. 

"Pret!"  and  the  two  watched  each  other 
warily. 

"Vait  min'te,"  Detanges  said;  they  faced  each 
other,  grave  and  silent. 

"Andre,  Ah  no  h'ave  enemie  for  toi,  but  by 
diable  deux  ol'  f ren's  no  can  marrie  sam'  girrl ! 
You  say  you  goin'  h'ave  dat  fille?"  La  Farge 
drew  his  forehead  down  till  the  skin  wrinkled 
like  brown  leather. 

"Certaine,  Ah  marrie  Elsie  ef  le  bon  Dieu 
mak'  eet  so  dat  Ah  keel  you ;  ef  He  no  vant  me 
for  to  have  dat  fille,  den  you  keel  me,  je  sup 
pose,"  he  answered,  thickly. 

"Bien!  tout  pret?"  Detanges  asked. 

"Pret!"  the  other  answered,  and  they  circled 
about  each  other. 

The  atmosphere  was  thick  and  heavy;  crash- 
ings  and  rumblings  of  thunder  sounded  near  by, 
while  jagged  tines  of  lightning  ripped  and  tore 
(84) 


FRIENDS 


the  southern  skies.  Dark  it  became,  and 
darker,  as  the  two  edged  about;  then  of  a  sudden 
they  rushed  in  and  grappled  fiercely. 

"Elsie!"  one  grunted,  trying  to  wrest  his 
knife  hand  from  the  other's  grip. 

"Elsie  !"  and  the  other  hung  on  grimly.  They 
fell,  rolling  over  and  over,  fighting  and  dodging 
each  other's  thrusts. 

The  heavens  opened,  and  the  rain  poured 
down  in  sheets  and  torrents,  soaking  the  two 
that  struggled  mutely.  The  thunder  crackled 
with  sharp  detonations  and  rolling  vibrations 
after  each  flash  of  lightning  had  zigzagged  its 
steel-blue  way  to  the  earth. 

Niko,  his  body  slippery  from  water  and 
sweat,  wrenched  his  knife  arm  free. 

"Ha,  Elsie!"  he  gasped,  and  struck  down 
ward  viciously,  but  Andre  caught  his  hand  in 
time,  and  the  sharp  steel  barely  scratched  La 
Farge's  side.  The  two  rolled  and  grunted,  each 
striving  to  get  in  the  death  blow. 

The  wind  shrieked  through  the  underbrush 
and  lifted  the  wave  heads,  driving  them  in  damp 
spray  over  the  beach. 

Boom !  Boom !  Cr-a-a-ack !  The  thunder 
peals  echoed  and  re-echoed  from  the  mountains. 
(85) 


FRIENDS 


that  lent  themselves  as  sounding-boards  to  the 
violent  crashings  of  the  skies. 

La  Farge  held  Niko's  wrist  in  a  grip  of  iron, 
and  Detanges  had  Andre's  knife  haft  and  the 
hand  that  held  it  in  a  convulsive  grasp  that 
could  not  be  shaken  off.  Thus  they  lay,  glaring 
at  each  other,  breathing  in  hoarse  gasps,  while 
the  rain  beat  on  them  and  the  wind  droned 
through  the  trees. 

Waves  broke  on  the  beach  near  them  with 
cold  furlings;  then  the  thunder  passed  on  and 
faded  gradually  away  to  the  westward. 

Andre  jerked  tremendously,  but  Niko  hung 
on  with  teeth  clenched  and  fingers  set  like  bands 
of  metal  on  the  other's  wrist. 

"No  good!"  he  grunted,  after  more  of  the 
silent  struggle. 

"Ve  try  som'ting  h'else." 

La  Farge  moved  his  head  affirmatively.  Each 
relaxed  his  hold,  and  they  rose.  The  storm  itself 
had  gone ;  the  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  wind  blew 
strongly  yet,  as  peeping  rays  of  the  afternoon 
sun  broke  through  the  thinning  thunder  clouds. 

The  men  dressed  in  silence. 

"Eh  bien?"  Andre  asked. 

"Ah  goin'  marrie  dat  girrl!"  Niko  answered. 
(86) 


FRIENDS 

His  friend  laughed  wildly. 

"You  no  keel  me,  Ah  no  keel  you;  vhat  ve  do 
maintenant?" 

"Leesten  a  moi ;  you  know  de  rapides  h'at  de 
Grande  Riviere?"  Detanges  looked  keenly  at 
La  Farge;  the  latter  nodded. 

"Ve  go  ovaire  dere  an'  run  dose  rapides;  ve 
mak'  de  chance  for  see  who  go  en  avant;  de  man 
v'at  h'alive  marrie  Elsie.  Vat  say?" 

"Bon,"  the  other  answered. 

They  pushed  off  their  canoes  and  paddled 
toward  the  other  shore.  The  wind  died  away 
slowly  till  the  waters  were  almost  as  calm  as 
they  had  been.  Above  the  two  the  skies  were 
azure  blue  again,  and  the  sinking  sun  shot 
streaks  of  warm,  softened  light  over  everything. 

When  near  the  forest  line  again  the  mellow 
roar  of  quick  water  came  to  them  softly,  and  in 
a  short  time  the  current  of  the  lake  outlet  pushed 
on  their  paddles. 

"Go  'shore  an'  mak'  see  who  go  en  avant." 

They  shoved  the  canoes  ashore  almost  at  the 
brink  of  the  white  water.  Hungry  and  fierce  it 
looked,  rolling  and  dashing  away  in  great  reef 
breaks  and  tumbling  rock  waves.  The  twro  stood 
up  and  gazed  silently  at  the  downward  rush. 
(87) 


FRIENDS 


"Vone  mans  go  troo  dere  sauf,  fif'ten  year 
gon';  datwas  d'Indien  Ma-na-le-to;  he  go  troo." 

"Mabbe  ve  bot'  go  sauf;  'ow  dat?"  Detanges 
asked  from  the  shore.  Andre  swung  on  his  heel 
in  the  canoe. 

"Ef  bot'  go  sauf,  den  fighd  avec  gun  at  de 
store." 

"Ah'm  content,"  and  Niko  picked  up  a  bit  of 
dried  stick  that  had  a  forked  end. 

"Ef  de  crook'd  end  she  pointe  to  d'E'st  ou 
Nord  w'en  de  leet'  steeck  he  fall,  you  go  en 
avant;  of  Sout  ou  Quest,  Ah  go." 

"Certaine!" 

The  piece  of  dead  branch  whirled  rapidly  in 
the  air  under  the  impulse  of  Niko's  strong  twirl, 
struck  the  ground,  bounced  and  fell.  The 
forked  end  pointed  fairly  toward  the  sun  that 
shone  hot  yellow  in  the  west. 

"Eet  for  me  to  go,"  Niko  said  gently.  He 
emptied  his  canoe  of  the  rain  water,  started  to 
push  out,  thought  a  moment  and  came  back. 

"Aur'voir,  Andre,  mon  gar,  mabbe  Ah  no  see 
you  h'again.  Ef  Ah'm  feenesh  la  bas,"  he 
nodded  toward  the  snarling  rapids,  "you  geef 
promesse  for  to  come  h'aftaire  me  an'  try  get 
troo?" 

(88) 


FRIENDS 


La  Farge  drew  himself  up  proudly,  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"Ah  geef  promesse,  Niko,  ve  ol'  fren's,  dat 
a'  'nough;  de  mans  dat  laif  in  half  heure  have 
Elsie.  Aur'voir,  mabbe  adieu  !" 

Detanges  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  grasped  his 
paddle  firmly  and  shoved  out  into  the  whirling 
current.  La  Farge  stood  up  on  a  high  rock  at 
the  river  edge. 

"Bonne  chance!"  he  called,  as  his  friend 
struck  the  first  crests.  Niko's  canoe  bobbed  up 
and  down,  cleared  gulch  after  gulch  of  tumbling, 
white-toothed  waters,  staggered  for  a  moment, 
steadied  and  kept  on,  then  reached  the  worst  of 
the  heavy  water.  Andre  held  his  breath  and 
watched. 

Niko  was  standing  now  and  pushed  hard  on 
his  paddle.  Suddenly  his  canoe  swayed,  twisted 
round,  fluttered  on  a  sea  and  overturned  in  an 
instant,  disappearing  like  magic  from  La  Farge's 
straining  eyes.  Many  minutes  Andre  watched; 
nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  foaming  current. 

"Bien,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "Ah  geef 
promesse  to  Niko  dat  Ah  try.  He  dead;  Ah  try 
jus'  sam' !" 

He  looked  all  around  before  he  stepped  from 
(89) 


FRIENDS 


the  high  rock.  The  sun  had  gone  and  the  even 
ing  skies  were  tinted  purple,  yellow  and  dark 
blue.  To  the  eastward  the  evening  star  twinkled 
brightly. 

"Elsie,  Ah  loove  you;  Niko he  dead,  he  loove 
you  aussi ;  le  bon  Dieu  be  goin'  say  ef  Ah  marrie 
you.  Niko  he  no  can  h'ave  you  maintenant !" 

Before  pushing  out  from  the  shore  Andre 
carefully  piled  the  provisions  that  were  in  the 
bottom  of  his  canoe  on  the  bank  under  a  thick 
spruce,  and  tied  his  yellow  handkerchief  to  one 
of  its  piney  branches. 

"Dey  see  dat  an'  come  look  for  see  v'at  ees," 
he  muttered,  went  to  the  canoe  again,  knelt 
solidly  in  it,  bracing  his  knees  and  back. 

"Bonne  chance  a  moi!"  he  shouted  loudly, 
pushing  out.  He  struck  the  first  rapids  skill 
fully,  edging  his  light  craft  now  to  the  right, 
then  to  the  left,  and  dodging  the  harsh  rocks 
cleverly. 

The  hardest  was  still  to  come,  and  he  knew  it. 
His  face  was  drawn  with  pain,  haggard  and 
gray  as  he  rushed  on,  nearly  helpless,  toward  the 
frightful  breakers  on  the  steepest  pitch  of  all. 

"Elsie !"  he  screamed  as  he  struck  them;  then 
he  felt  the  canoe  sag  and  lurch  sickeningly;  he 
(90) 


FRIENDS 

tried  frantically  to  keep  control  of  it,  but  the 
paddle  was  torn  from  his  hands. 

"Adieu,  Elsie,  cherie,  Ah  loove  toi,"  he 
mumbled. 

Wssht-t-swa-a-sh — br-m-oom — !  and  it  was 
over. 

The  thousand  stars  peeped  glittering  from  the 
dark  vaults  and  shone  on  a  desolate  wild  stretch 
of  hurtling  waters.  Nothing  living  anywhere; 
only  the  silent  forest  that  loomed  black  and  for 
bidding  over  the  furious,  rushing  river. 


(91) 


Wilkinson's   Chance 


Wilkinson's   Chance 

SHADING   his  eyes   from  the  blistering 
glare,   holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle 
while  the  sweat  rolled  in  streams,  Con 
stable    Wilkinson,    of    the    Royal    Northwest 
Mounted  Police,  rested  on  a  little  rise  of  land. 
Overhead  the   sun   scorched   and  burned,   and 
across  the  great  prairie  distance  the  shimmering 
heat  waves  caused  the  dreary  perspective  to  roll 
sluggishly  like  the  sea;  brown,  gray  and  green 
mingling  together,  chaosing  before  the  man's 
sun-dulled    eyes.       No    sound     disturbed    the 
parched  air;  no  living  thing  moved,  and  as  he 
looked  about  him  the  only  relieving  objects  were 
bleached  buffalo  skulls  and  bones,  reminders  of 
the  presence  of  man  in  the  desolate  wilderness. 
"God,"  he  muttered,  "this  is  hell !" 
He  went  around  and  sat  down  in  his  horse's 

shadow,  drew  out  a  pipe,  lighted  it 

"Can't   smoke,    can't  see  worth   a   cent,   no 

water,  lost  track  of  the  men  I'm  after,  damn  'em, 

and  now — ,  what's  next?"  he  finished  slowly. 

The  horse  looked  wonderingly  at  him,  then  nib- 

(95) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


bled  at  the  stiff,  baked  grass.  Wilkinson's  head 
fell  forward  in  little  jerks  and  he  dozed  with 
exhaustion. 

Slowly  the  hours  passed  on,  the  man  limp  on 
the  hot  ground,  the  horse  waiting  patiently,  its 
bridle  over  Wilkinson's  arm.  As  the  sun  neared 
the  musty  horizon,  red  and  fiery,  life  came  to  the 
prairie;  gophers  sat  up  and  their  sharp,  shrill 
whistlings  pierced  the  cooling  atmosphere. 

Suddenly  the  man  stirred,  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  listened  eagerly. 

"That  was  a  shot,  I'm  sure!"  he  whispered, 
peering  through  the  dusk  that  now  wrapped  the 
prairie  in  purple  and  gray  lights. 

Bang Bang Crack ! 

"I  knew  it!  Down,  Andy,  down!"  He 
pushed  the  horse,  gently  kicking  its  knees  as  he 
did  so;  obediently  it  sank  and  rolled  over  with 
a  grunt.  The  Constable  dropped  beside  it,  and 
saw  several  shapes  fleeing  toward  him;  in  a 
moment  they  were  gone. 

"Antelope  !  That's  what  they  were  shooting 
at!  Wonder  who  it  is?  I'll  wait  here." 

It  was  dark  now,  and  the  prone  figures  of 
man  and  horse  were  but  black  splotches  in  the 
faint  starlight.  Then  from  off  to  the  right  came 

(96) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


the  sound  of  voices,  faintly  at  first,  then 
stronger,  until  words  were  distinguishable. 

"Laramie, — Laramie !" 

Wilkinson  trembled  with  eagerness. 

"Laramie?  My  men,  after  all!  Here's  luck! 
Here's  fame !  I'll  make  a  name  for  myself 
yet!"  he  whispered,  exultantly.  Carefully  he 
lifted  his  head,  reached  over  and  pressed  his 
fingers  strongly  in  the  horse's  soft  muzzle. 

"Quiet,  Andy,  old  nag,  quiet!" 

"Talk  erbout  pure,  cussed  luck,"  a  voice  came 
to  him  from  a  little  flat  below,  "missed  thet 
jumpin'  deer  cleaner  'n  a  gopher  huntin'  his 
hole!  Nawthin'  t'eat,  nawthin'  but  rotten 
whisky  to  drink,  and  sixty  critters  to  watch !" 

"Don't  blame  me,"  another  voice  answered 
from  farther  in  the  darkness;  "ye  would  run 
'em  off!" 

"Would  run  'cm  off,  ye  idjiot?  And  why 
shouldn't  I?  Fifty  dollars  a  head  for  this  lot 
sure,  and  a  cinch  to  get  'em!" 

"Quit  yer  kickin',  then,  an'  strike  a  light 
whilst  I  watches  these  dod-blamed  ponies!" 

A  blaze  soon  flickered  its  feeble  glow  in  the 
valley,  and  Wilkinson  saw  the  strong  features 
of  Slick  Ben  Laramie,  "bad"  man,  dead  shot, 

(97) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


and  horse  thief.  These  were  the  men  he  had 
been  sent  to  capture,  and  whose  trail  he  had  lost 
on  the  seared  and  withered  prairie. 

"Tom!"  Laramie  called. 

"Whut?" 

"Where'd  that  red-coat  sojer  o'  th'  Queen 
go?" 

"Way  out  yander  to  th'  south'ard;  last  I  seen 
him  he  was  goin'  like  blazes!" 

Laramie  laughed.  "Neat  trick  o'  mine, 
doublin'  on  our  tracks,  wa'n't  it?" 

"Yep !" 

"Wonder  whose  arter  us  this  time?"  and 
Slick  Ben  stared  at  the  little  fire  that  crackled 
but  faintly  and  from  which  no  smoke  came. 
"Last  trip  it  was  Dunn;  you  mind  Dunn,  don't 
you,  Tom  ?  An'  I  'done'  him,  right  ertween  th' 
eyes!  Time  afore  thet  two  sojers  tickled  our 
trail  fer  four  days;  you  winged  one,  you  mind? 
T'other  got  skeered  an'  vamoosed!" 

Laramie  was  silent;  the  world  was  silent  for 
Wilkinson,  save  for  the  stamping  of  the  stolen 
horses'  feet  in  the  gloom  beyond,  and  the  work 
ing  of  his  heart. 

"There's  nawthin'  '11  run  the  critters  t'night, 
Tom ;  come  up  an'  hev  a  drink." 
(98) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


"Thet  hits  me,  pard!"  and  in  a  few  moments 
the  Constable  saw  another  man  appear  in  the 
circle  of  yellow  light;  this  one  was  of  a  wiry 
build,  heavily  bearded,  and  carried  a  revolver. 
Wilkinson  thought  the  matter  over. 

"There's  just  one  chance,"  he  muttered 
finally,  while  the  two  below  laughed  and  talked, 
"and  that  is  to  rush  them  now;  I'll  have  to  risk 
Andy's  whinnying."  He  withdrew  his  hands 
from  the  muzzle;  the  horse  sighed  and  lay  quiet. 
"Here  goes  for  a  name!"  Wilkinson  drew  his 
service  revolver,  and  crept  slowly  back  for  a 
few  feet;  then  he  rose  swiftly  and  ran,  bending 
low,  toward  the  fire.  At  fifteen  yards  he 
stopped. 

"Hands  up,  and  quickly!" 

The  man  called  Tom  had  his  in  the  air  like  a 
flash,  and  Laramie  was  not  far  behind.  The 
latter  looked  Wilkinson  up  and  down  critically. 

"Wall,  sojer,  ye  got  th'  best  of  us!  Here's 
my  gun."  He  started  to  reach  down  to  his 
holster. 

"Another  inch  and  I'll  drill  you!" 

"Alright,  sojer,  alright;  no  offense!"  Lara 
mie  smiled  grimly:  "You're  doin'  well  fer  a 
youngster!" 

(99) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


"Thanks,"  the  Constable  chuckled;  "now  side 
by  side,  you  two,  backs  to  the  fire."  The  men 
did  as  they  were  told,  and  Wilkinson  relieved 
them  of  two  revolvers,  two  knives  and  a  short, 
round  thong,  loaded  with  lead  at  one  end;  all 
these  he  placed  on  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

"That'll  do  now,  men;  sit  down,"  he  said, 
when  he  had  finished  the  search. 

"What's  your  name,  sojer,  ef  I  may  presoom 
to  eenquire?"  Laramie  stretched  himself  lazily 
by  the  feeble  blaze. 

"Frank  Wilkinson." 

"B'en  long  in  th'  force?"  the  other  horse  thief 
asked,  as  he  seated  himself. 

"Only  two  years;  came  out  here  to  see  if  I 
could  make  a  name  for  myself;  never  was  much 
good  at  home." 

Laramie  chuckled.  "You'll  do  fust  rate  ef 
you  kep  on  th'  way  ye're  goin',  won't  he,  Tom  ?" 

"Sure,  pard,  sure;  but  say,  sojer,  honest  now: 
ye  got  us  more  by  cussed,  all-fired  good  luck  'n 
by  good  judgment,  now  didn't  ye?" 

"That  is  true,  but  my  lucky  star  to-night 
means  a  lot  to  me  with  the  Commissioner.  You 
two  have  done  for  some  of  our  boys,  besides 
running  off  a  thundering  lot  of  horses  in  the  last 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


three  years !"  Wilkinson's  voice  rang  with  a 
triumphant,  sharp,  crisp  sound,  and  the  faint 
light  sparkled  in  his  brown  eyes. 

"True  fer  ye,  sojer,  true  as  ye  say  it;  and  we'd 
ha'  done  fer  ye,  too,  ef  we'd  'a'  had  th'  chanst, 
bet  yer  life  on  that!" 

"Let  that  go,  Tom;  we  kinder  went  off  half- 
cocked,  as  ye  mought  say;  what  I'm  eenterested 
in,  is  why  this  young  feller  should  come  out  o'  a 
civilized,  God-fearin'  country  to  this  blasted, 
alkali  wilderness,  an',  on  top  o'  that,  go  to 
sojerin'  at  seventy-five  cents  a  day."  Slick  Ben 
lifted  himself  on  his  elbow  as  he  continued, 
"Whut  d'ye  say,  sojer,  ef  we  swap  yarns  erbout 
our  lives?  We  can't  leave  here  till  ye  gets  yer 
hoss  in  the  mornin',  and  as  ye  got  ter  set  up  an' 
watch  us,  curse  me  ef  I  don't  stay  awake  with  ye, 
purvided  ye  tell  th'  story  o'  yer  life;  how 
erbout  it?" 

"Mine  isn't  worth  listening  to."  Wilkinson 
stopped  a  moment,  and  his  eyes  became  set  in  a 
thoughtful,  remembering  stare.  "But,"  he  hur 
ried  on,  "I'll  tell  it  so  that  I  can  hear  yours;  only 
remember  that  anything  you  say  will  be  used 
against  you." 

"Don't  let  thet  worry  you,  sojer;  I  ain't 
(101) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


agoin'  ter  eencriminate  myself,  you  bet!    Wall, 
here  goes!" 

Laramie  tore  up  some  grasses,  gathered  a  few 
twigs  that  were  near  him,  and,  as  the  flames 
danced  into  the  cool  darkness,  Wilkinson  won 
dered  at  the  clean-cut  features,  the  high,  square 
forehead,  the  strong  mouth  and  firm  chin  of  this 
noted  "bad  man."  "They  said  he  was  good- 
looking;  he  is,  too,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
Meanwhile  Laramie  sat  lost  in  a  reverie;  he 
started  suddenly,  then,  looking  keenly  at  Wilkin 
son,  he  began,  and  the  Constable  listened  in 
astonishment,  for  the  voice  he  heard  was  quiet, 
modulated,  that  of  an  educated  man. 

"I  was  born  in  New  England,  my  friend, 
thirty-two  years  ago.  My  mother  died  when  I 
was  a  little  lad,  and  my  father  didn't  much  care 
what  became  of  me,  at  least  I  presume  this  to  be 
the  case,  for  I  never  saw  him  after  I  was  five 
years  old,  though  I  heard  of  him  indirectly. 
Somehow  or  another,  I  grew  until  I  was  old 
enough  to  go  to  school.  My  father  paid  my  ex 
penses  and  gave  me  a  good  allowance,  beyond 
that,  nothing.  I  went  to  school,  and  then  formed 
the  ambition  to  go  to  Harvard  College " 

"But "  Wilkinson  began. 

(  102  ) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


"Please  let  me  finish,"  Laramie  said  quietly. 
"Having  this  object  in  mind,  I  worked  hard  at 
my  books,  and,  my  allowance  still  keeping  up 
to  the  standard,  at  seventeen  I  entered  Harvard. 
My  sophomore  year  I  fell  in  love  with  the  dear 
est  woman,  to  me,  in  the  whole  of  this  bitter, 
hard  world,  and  in  my  junior  year,  or  rather  at 
the  beginning  of  it,  we  were  married.  Then, 
without  a  word  of  warning,  the  allowance  ceased 
absolutely;  no  word  of  explanation,  nothing. 
The  firm  through  which  the  money  had  been 
paid  refused  all  information,  and  there  I  was, 
penniless.  My  money  had  been  ample  to  sup 
port  two  quietly,  and  I  felt  sure  that  I  could 
obtain  work  that  I  should  be  fitted  for  after  I 
graduated;  that  was  why  I  married  when  I  did. 
Bess,  that  is  my  wife's  name,  had  a  little  of 
her  own,  and  we  decided  to  come  west;  we 
went  down  into  Texas,  to  a  place  called — the 
name  is  immaterial,  however — and  I  obtained 
employment  in  a  milling  concern.  Things  went 
on  pretty  well  for  a  time,  then  came  the  deluge. 
The  foreman  hit  me  one  day  with  a  block  of 
wood;  I  hit  back,  and  he  came  at  me  with  a 
knife;  I  picked  up  a  wrench,  and  let  him  have  it, 
killing  him  on  the  spot.  I  fled  the  country,  a 
(  103  ) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


posse  after  me,  and  since  then You  know 

the  rest." 

The  silence  was  absolute  when  Laramie  fin 
ished.  His  partner,  Tom,  sat  moodily  in  his 
place,  twisting  and  twirling  grass  roots  between 
his  fingers.  Now  and  then  one  of  the  ponies 
snorted  or  stamped;  otherwise  everything  was 
still. 

"Where  is  your  wife  now?"  Wilkinson  asked 
slowly. 

Tom  jerked  his  head  up.  "Don't  be  more  'n 
a  fool  than  ye  hev  be'n,  Ben!  We're  took; 
don't  give  th'  gal  away!" 

"Aw,  th'  sojer  ain't  lookin'  fer  her;  he 
wouldn't  find  her  ef  he  was!"  The  voice  had 
all  its  original  harshness;  and  the  steel-blue  eyes 
were  fathomless  and  cold  again. 

"Come  on,  sojer,  tell  yer  leetle  story,"  Tom 
sneered  viciously. 

"It's  short,  and  goes  somewhat  like  this," 
Wilkinson  began.  "I,  too,  was  born  in  New 
England."  He  watched  for  a  gleam  of  recogni 
tion  to  cross  the  other's  face,  but  the  features 
were  stony  hard  and  set,  and  he  continued,  "I 
had  every  advantage,  and — threw  them  all 
away.  Now  I'm  out  here  trying  to  do  some- 
(  104) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


thing  that's  decent.  My  mother  is  the  only  one 
in  the  world  that  has  a  single  ray  of  hope  left 
for  me;  after  all,  one's  mother's  hope  and  confi 
dence  are  the  last  to  go.  I  promised  her  I  would 
go  straight  and  come  back  with  something  to  my 
credit;  that's  all  there  is  to  my  life." 

"Ever  been  in  the  jug?"  Laramie  asked 
shortly. 

The  Constable  hesitated  an  instant. 

"I  kin  see  ye  hev,"  the  other  said.  "Whut 
fur?" 

"That  doesn't  matter,  does  it?" 

"Naw,  I  don't  suppose  it  do.  Wall,  she's 
a-comin'  daylight."  Laramie  stood  up  slowly. 

Faint  and  far  over  the  eastern  horizon  shiv 
ering,  timid  veils  of  light  were  creeping  up  the 
heavens.  Pale-blue  at  first,  then  as  they  grew 
stronger  changing  to  green  and  yellow.  Little 
by  little  the  prairie  distances  took  shape,  until 
the  rolling  hills  and  hollows  loomed  everywhere. 
Once  more  the  gophers  whistled,  and  the  coy 
otes  became  silent;  here  and  there  appeared 
their  vague  brown-gray  shapes  as  they  scuttled 
over  the  rises  of  the  land. 

"Go  ahead  of  me,  men,  over  that  flat  there, 
till  I  find  my  horse."  Wilkinson  took  all  the 
(105) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


cartridges  from  the  prisoners'  guns,  then  throw 
ing  his  rifle  across  his  arm,  he  walked  after  the 
two.  Some  distance  away  they  found  the  horse, 
which  was  quietly  grazing  on  such  bits  of  grass 
as  had  not  been  entirely  blasted  by  the  sun. 
The  Constable  mounted,  and,  with  the  two  still 
in  front  of  him,  went  back  to  the  herd  of  stolen 
ponies. 

"There's  nothing  to  eat,  men,  so  we  might  as 
well  start!"  Slowly  the  ponies  began  to  move; 
then  they  trotted  along.  "Sorry,  men,  but  I'll 
have  to  put  these  on  you." 

Laramie  drew  back.  Instantly  Wilkinson 
covered  him  with  the  rifle.  "Better  come 
quietly,  Laramie;  you've  got  to  come  any 
way!" 

They  looked  at  each  other,  then  the  horse 
thief  held  out  his  wrist.  A  rattle,  clink,  snap, 
and  the  prisoners  were  handcuffed  to  each 
other. 

"You  can  ride  if  you  can  keep  your  horses 
near  enough  together." 

Tom  looked  up  gratefully.  "T'anks,  sojer; 
she's  a-goin'  ter  be  a  scorcher  to-day,  no  mis 
take." 

The  sun,  in  fierce,  red  glory,  was  just  coming 
(106) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 

over  the  sky-line,  and  its  hot  rays  burned  even  at 
this  early  hour  of  the  morning. 

Suddenly,  as  they  moved  onward,  Wilkinson 
saw  Laramie  looking  sharply  across  the  prairie, 
and  heard  him  mutter  to  his  companion.  He 
himself  searched  the  bare  wastes  and  saw  a  mov 
ing  speck  approaching  rapidly. 

"Rescue,"  he  whispered;  then,  "Halt!  Dis 
mount!  Lie  down!" 

Laramie  and  Tom  lay  flat,  while  Wilkinson 
sat  his  horse,  watching.  Nearer  and  nearer 
came  the  speck;  at  last  he  could  distinguish  a 
horse  and  rider,  traveling  very  fast.  The  rider 
saw  him  then,  and  swerved  in  his  direction. 

"By  God,  it's  a  woman!"  unconsciously  he 
spoke  aloud. 

"Woman?  Woman?"  and  Slick  Ben  leaped 
to  his  feet,  dragging  his  companion  with  him. 
"It's  Bess,  Tom,  sure  as  fate!" 

"Stand  where  you  are,  men,  or  I  shoot!"  The 
Constable  cocked  his  rifle.  The  woman  was 
very  near  now;  still  nearer;  the  pounding  of  her 
pony's  feet  was  plainly  discernible  in  the  morn 
ing  stillness.  It  lurched  up  the  slope,  staggered, 
groaned,  and  rolled  over,  dead;  the  woman  slid 
to  her  knees,  utterly  exhausted. 
(  107  ) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


"Charlie,  Charlie!"  she  gasped. 

"Steady,  Bess,  steady,"  Laramie  answered, 
stiffening  and  straining  at  the  handcuff;  "what 
is  it,  the  boy?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes — dying,  ca — calling  for  you; 
you  said  you  would  be  back  last  night;  I  waited 
and  waited,  and  then  couldn't  stand  his  calling 
for  you  any  longer,  so  I  started  out  to  find  you 
if  I  could.  I  have  tra — traveled  nearly  all 
night;  the  brave  little  horse  did  his  best." 

She  looked  up  and  saw  Wilkinson's  red  coat. 

"Cha — Ben,  oh,  Ben,  it's  too  late,  then?" 
Her  face  went  white,  and  she  sank  slowly,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  Constable  in  a  strange,  wild 
stare. 

Laramie  looked  over  his  shoulder.  "Can  I — 
can  I  talk  to  my  wife?"  he  asked  huskily.  Wil 
kinson  nodded. 

Tenderly,  as  well  as  he  could  with  one  hand, 
Tom  helping,  Laramie  lifted  the  girl,  for  she 
was  hardly  more  than  that,  and  leaned  her  body 
against  his. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late  this  time,  Bess, 
too  late."  His  strong  body  shook,  but  no  tears 
showed  in  the  steel-blue  eyes.  "What  hap 
pened?" 

(108) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


Shudderingly  the  words  came  in  answer. 

"He  was  playing  cowboy  yesterday,  and  he 
fell  among  the  horses;  one  of  the  stallions  kicked 
and  bit  him.  Oh,  Charlie,  it's  awful !  he's  dying, 
calling,  calling  for  you;  I  can  hear  him  now!" 
The  girl  got  to  her  feet.  "I  always  said  it  would 
come  to  this;  the  horses  have  taken  everything 
I  have  in  the  world,  my  boy,  and  because  of  them 
the  police  have  taken  you !"  The  tears  came 
then,  in  gasping,  choking  torrents  to  her  eyes, 
and  the  four  stood  thus,  while  the  broiling,  blis 
tering  heat  grew  and  grew. 

Laramie,  his  voice  trembling,  his  eyes  on  the 
Constable,  said,  "Wilkinson,  will  you  take  my 
word,  that  I  will  deliver  myself  to  the  Regina 
barracks  within  thirty  hours,  and  let  me  go  to 
my  boy  for  the  last  time?" 

The  girl  caught  her  breath.  As  if  by  magic, 
there  passed  before  Wilkinson's  memory  eyes 
a  sweet  old  figure;  he  saw  it  at  a  window,  and 
the  face  was  wet  with  tears.  He  dismounted, 
fumbling  at  his  chain. 

"Go  !  I'll  take  your  word !  Remember  what 
it  means  to  me !"  and  he  unlocked  the  handcuff. 

Before  he  could  move,  the  girl  had  kissed  his 
hand. 

(  109) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 

"God  bless  you,  Policeman;  Charlie  will  be 
on  time;  ride,  ride,  Charlie,  you  may  not  be  too 
late;  I'll  walk  back.  Go!  Go!"  she  screamed. 

Wilkinson's  face  worked  and  quivered,  he 
swallowed  hard. 

"Take  my  horse,  girl,  quick!  Tell  him  to 
bring  it  back  when  he  comes,"  he  shouted 
hoarsely  after  her  as  she  sped  away. 

They  were  gone,  lost  in  the  seared,  brown 
lands. 

The  Constable  turned  and  saw  Tom  watching 
him.  He  tried  to  smile,  but  somehow  the  smile 
wouldn't  come;  then  the  other  held  out  his  hand. 

"I'm  nothin'  but  a  horse  thief  an',  an'  wuss, 
but  I've  seed  all  kinds  o'  men,  an',  sojer,  I  jest 
wants  fer  ter  say  this,  thet  ye'r  the  whitest  God 
ever  made,  an'  ef  ye'd  take  my  hand,  I'll  never 
go  crooked  again." 

They  shook  hands  silently,  and  as  silently 
started  on  their  way,  Wilkinson  riding  Tom's 
horse.  All  that  day,  through  the  glowing  heat 
waves,  their  eyes  reeling  and  aching,  their  brains 
numbed  in  their  skulls,  the  two  plodded  slowly 
on.  When  night,  with  its  short  hours  of  life- 
saving  coolness,  came  again,  they  stopped. 

"No  need  o'  hitchin'  me  t'night,  sojer;  I'd  cut 
(no) 


me  right  fist  off  fer  ye."  Wilkinson  said  noth 
ing,  and  the  two  lay  down  hungry,  side  by  side. 
At  daylight  they  went  on,  and  when  the  sun  was 
straight  over  them  in  all  its  fury  they  reached 
the  Mounted  Police  Barracks  at  Regina.  Wil 
kinson  turned  the  horses  over  to  the  officer  of 
the  day,  then  saw  his  prisoner  registered,  meas 
ured,  weighed  and  safely  locked  up  in  the  guard 
house.  Weak  from  his  long  trip  and  lack  of 
food,  he  reported  to  the  Adjutant,  who  com 
mands  the  Barracks  and  who  looks  after  all 
routine. 

"Well?"  Adjutant  MacAlbee  asked,  seeing 
the  dusty,  sun-stained  figure  before  him  at  at 
tention. 

"Found  Laramie  and  a  man  called  Tom  with 
the  stolen  horses,  sir;  came  on  them  near  Wat 
son's  Creek.  Captured  them,  and  the  horses, 
sir,  full  count."  There  he  stopped. 

"Where  are  they?"  curt  and  sharp  came  the 
question. 

"Horses  delivered  to  officer  of  the  day,  the 
man  called  Tom  delivered  to  the  guard." 

"Well?     And  the  other?     Come,  man,  speak 


up! 


"I  let  him  go,  sir." 

(in) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


"What?" — the  Adjutant  leaped  from  his 
chair— "you  WHAT?" 

"Let  him  go,  sir." 

MacAlbee  stared  in  furious  astonishment. 

"And,  if  I  may  ask,  since  when  has  a  Consta 
ble  had  the  power  of  permitting  prisoners  to  go 
free?  Answer  me  that,  sir!" 

"May  I  tell  the  circumstances,  sir?" 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on !  I  suppose  the  truth  is  that 
the  other  got  away  from  you;  of  course  it's  the 
man  we  have  wanted  for  four  years,  and  you 
were  told  so,  but  that  doesn't  make  the  slightest 
difference;  oh,  dear,  no,  not  the  slightest!" 

The  Adjutant  gradually  worked  himself  into 
a  frightful  rage,  and  paced  wildly  up  and  down 
his  office  while  Wilkinson  repeated  what  had 
happened.  When  he  had  finished,  MacAlbee 
stopped  in  front  of  him. 

"And  you  expect  me  to  believe  this  damned 
rot?" 

Then  swinging  on  his  heel,  he  pressed  a  but 
ton  ;  an  orderly  came. 

"Send  the  officer  of  the  day  here  at  once!" 

The  latter  appeared  in  a  few  moments  and 
saluted. 

"You  will  take  Constable  Wilkinson  to  the 

(112) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


guard-house,  and  see  that  he  is  in  close  confine 
ment  !  For  this,  my  fine  fellow,  you  will  get  six 
months  in  the  guard-house  and  dismissed  from 
the  force!  Take  him  away!" 

Wilkinson  moved  after  the  officer  of  the  day 
as  in  a  terrible  dream.  As  he  went  out  of  the 
Adjutant's  office  he  looked  up  at  the  clock. 

"It's  half  an  hour  past  his  time,  and  this  is  the 
end  of  everything  for  me!"  And  again  that 
tear-stained,  dear  old  face  flitted  before  his 
eyes. 

Mutely  following,  he  was  crossing  the  Bar 
racks  square  to  the  guard-house,  and  was  almost 
there  when  a  tumult  arose  in  the  far  corner  of 
the  yard;  he  looked  back  and  saw  two  horses 
galloping  wildly  across  the  lawns.  On  one  of 
them  huddled  a  human  form,  the  other  was 
riderless,  its  bridle  fastened  to  the  man's  waist. 
Wilkinson  turned,  and,  heedless  of  the  officer's 
shouts,  ran  back.  Laramie,  for  it  was  he,  rolled 
off  into  the  Constable's  arms,  and  he  saw  blood 
streaming  from  his  open  shirt  collar,  and  slug 
gishly  dripping  from  his  back.  The  wounded 
man  looked  at  him  through  half-open  and  dull 
ing  eyes. 

"I — I — I   got  there   on — on — on  time,"   he 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


whispered;  then,  gathering  himself,  went  on, 
"had  a  br — ush  with  Pol — ic — e  from  Woods 
Mo — u — n — ta — in,  they — tr — led  to — to  get 
me,  but  I  was  afr — aid  that  you — would  be 
court-mart — 1 — d,  so — so  I  ca — me  as  soon  as 
I  could."  The  head  fell  back;  a  slight  tre 
mor  ran  through  the  muscles,  and  Laramie  was 
dead.  From  behind  the  crowd  of  men  that  had 
gathered  came  a  choking,  rasping  voice. 

"Let  me  see  my  old  pard,  just  once!"  The 
crowd  parted,  and  Tom  came  through.  He 
knelt  beside  the  stiffening  form,  and  a  deep 
silence  was  on  everything.  The  evening  skies 
shed  a  soft  glow,  and,  strangely  enough,  through 
a  rift  in  the  clouds  came  the  last  ray  of  the  setting 
sun;  and  it  shone  for  an  instant  on  the  dead 
man's  face,  then  it  was  gone.  Tom  knelt  silent, 
his  shoulders  heaving  and  falling.  Finally  he 
stood  up. 

"Good-by,  old  pard." 

Wilkinson,  just  as  the  guards  were  about  to 
take  their  prisoner  away  again,  grasped  him  by 
the  arm — 

"The  girl,  the  girl,"  he  whispered;  "where 
is  she,  and  who  was  he?" 

The  other  looked  at  him  an  instant. 
(H4) 


WILKINSON'S    CHANCE 


"Sorry,  sojer,  but  I  swore  I'd  never  tell,  an' 
I  won't!"  and  he  walked  away,  his  leg  irons 
clanking  softly. 

"It  is  finished!"  Wilkinson  whispered,  and 
brushed  off  the  tears  that  would  come. 


(H5) 


The   Current  of  Fear 


The   Current  of  Fear 

c<  T  "W"  "T'HO  says  the  dogs  in  this  blamed 

%  /\  I  country  is  savage?"  Black  Dan 
T  V  waited,  glowering  drunkenly,  re 
volver  in  hand,  at  the  crowd  in  the  bar. 

"Who  says  it?"  he  roared  again,  cursing. 
"Yur  a  passel  o'  cowards;  yu  dassent  shout!" 

One  man's  hand  reached  toward  his  hip.  A 
spit  of  flame  from  Black  Dan's  weapon,  and  a 
lifeless  thing  twitched  on  the  floor.  The  Indians 
stared,  expressionless;  then  Tim  Samson,  with 
a  sweeping  throw,  hurled  his  whisky  in  Black 
Dan's  face.  The  crowd  were  on  him  as  he 
staggered  and  got  his  gun. 

The  huge  man  stood  up  slowly,  his  face 
twisted  into  a  frightful  snarl.  "That's  whut 
yu  call  a  fair  show,  is't?  Yur  wuss  cowards 
than  I  thunk,  damn  yu !" 

"He's  drunk,  boys,  and  Jake  did  try  fer  to 
draw  on  him,  so  that's  fair  'nuff;  but,  by  God, 
we  won't  stand  fer  no  cheap  skate  from  Simpson 

(H9) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

a-comin'  up  hyar  and  callin'  us  cowards,  whut?" 
English  Jack  sprang  on  a  chair  as  he  spoke. 

"No!"  the  crowd  thundered. 

"Well,  then,  let's  make  the  skunk  take  my 
team — they're  the  wust  I  knows  of  hyar-a-bouts, 
bein'  part  wolf  ev'ry  one  of  'em — and  drive  to 
Skagway !" 

Black  Dan's  eye  glittered.  "Yu  dassent!  I'll 
take  yur  dogs  clear  to  Yukon  an'  back!" 

"Yu  take  that  bunch  to  Skagway,  an'  yu  kin 
have  'em;  if  yu  don't  get  'em  there  we'll  fix  yu 
next  trip!"  Whispers  passed  round.  "What's 
Jack  up  to?"  "Ought  to  ride  the  cuss!"  "He 
knows  his  biz." 

"Neow  yur  talkin',  Jack."  Dan's  face  light 
ened.  "I'll " 

"Hoi'  on,  hoi'  on,  I  ain't  done  yit!  We'll 
give  yu  some  grub,  a  pair  o'  snowshoes,  but  no 
knife  nor  gun." 

Black  Dan  hesitated,  the  crowd  jeered. 

"Who's  a  coward  now,  yu  big  bully !  Yu  kin 
drop  a  man,  I'll  admit,  when  his  weepon's  in  his 
holster,  but  yur  a-scared  to  take  eight  dogs  to 
Skagway!"  English  Jack  snapped  his  long 
fingers  in  derision. 

"I'll  go,"  the  big  man  said,  sullenly,  "s'posin' 
(  120  ) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

Hell  freezes  over;  gimme  a  drop  o'  whisky  ter 
take  erlong?" 

"Shall  we,  boys?" 

"Sure,  an'  a  good  drop;  he'll  need  it  with  yur 
team,"  and  the  men  roared  with  laughter;  why, 
Black  Dan  did  not  understand.  So  it  was 
arranged. 

"They'll  tear  him  ter  bits  ef  he  falls  down," 
Long  Anderson  whispered  to  Jack. 

"Sssh!  Thet's  whut  I'm  countin'  on,"  the 
other  answered;  "we  cyant  shoot  him  in  'cause 
Jake  reached  fer  his  gun,  but  by  the  etarnel, 
this  '11  fix  him  good.  I'm  a-goin'  ter  foller  him, 
so's  not  ter  lose  my  team;  they'll  have  a  good 
feed  fer  onct!"  English  Jack  chuckled.  "Lend 
me  yur  outfit,  Andy?" 

"Cert!  Jiminy  blazes,  but  yu've  got  a  imagi 
nation  !"  Dirty  Dick,  the  bartender,  furnished 
the  whisky;  he  shook  his  head  solemnly  as  he 
did  so,  but  it  was  no  affair  of  his.  The  gang 
tramped  out  to  see  Black  Dan  start. 

The  afternoon  was  cold,  freezing  with  bitter 
sting,  and  the  wind  yowled  mournfully  across 
the  wild  country.  The  skies  were  low  and 
drear,  the  clouds  moving  with  imperceptible 
slide.  To  the  right,  mountains  loomed  gray- 

(121) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

dark  and  hazy,  reaching  beyond  the  foot-hills 
in  vanishing  heights.  The  lonely  wind  came 
in  nasty  gusts,  whirling  the  snow  in  biting 
masses.  In  the  stables,  dogs  howled  sadly;  one 
yelping,  the  others  taking  up  the  weird  cadence. 
English  Jack  brought  out  his  team;  eight  ugly 
brutes  with  drooling  mouths  and  wolf-like  coats. 
They  snapped  and  bit  at  him  as  he  curled  the 
long  whip  about  their  heads. 

"Get  in  there,  Swift!"  The  leader  showed 
his  teeth  and  took  his  place  before  the  team. 
Jack  slung  the  last  straps  over  them;  then  fas 
tened  the  light  sledge.  The  food,  a  small  blanket 
and  the  whisky  were  all  tied  down. 

"Now  then,  Dan,  come  on  ef  yur  not 
afeard  !"  All  this  time  the  man  had  been  watch 
ing,  liquor  courage  in  his  heart;  he  grabbed  the 
whip,  "Psh — sht  marse!"  and  away. 

The  crowd  gazed  after  him,  out  of  sight  on 
the  plains,  going  like  mad. 

"He'll  get  there,  Jack,  by  God,  he  will!" 

"Don't  yu  fuss  yurself  'bout  it;  he'll  git 

skeared  purty  soon,  and  then "  They  all 

went  back  to  the  bar. 

English  Jack  took  a  drink.  "I'll  start  in  an 
hour  or  so,  catch  him  'bout  on  Crooked  Plains." 
(  122  ) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

"Them  fools,"  Black  Dan  muttered  as  the 
dogs  coursed  on,  "a-thinkin'  I  cyant  run  this 
hyar  team  ter  Skagway  !  I'll  git  my  crowd  thar, 
come  back,  wait  fer  night,  an'  wipe  out  the  whul' 
shebang!"  He  sat  comfortably  on  the  sledge, 
its  whirring  sound  lulling  him  almost  to  sleep. 
Then  the  snow  began  to  fall  as  he  climbed  into 
the  uplands.  Straight  and  damp  the  flakes  came, 
clinging  to  his  face,  coating  his  clothes  with 
prismatic  myriads.  The  north  wind  blew  merci 
lessly,  and  the  dogs  whined  as  they  sped  on. 
Deeper  and  deeper  the  layers  of  white  became, 
until  the  team  could  pull  no  more,  even  though 
the  man  lashed  them  hard,  bringing  away  bits 
of  fur  at  every  stroke. 

"Marse,  damn  yu,  marse,  go  on !"  The  soft 
ness  reached  the  bottom  of  the  sledge,  impeded 
its  way  heavily,  and  the  eight  stopped,  gasping 
in  loud  pantings,  audible  above  the  weird  whist 
lings  of  the  storm. 

Black  Dan  got  off  the  sledge  and  put  on  the 
snowshoes;  tied  a  bit  of  rope  to  the  runners. 
"Ah-hai  marse!"  The  brutes  struggled  on. 

"I'll  show  them  cusses  back  thar,"  he  swore. 
On  and  on  till  the  snow  was  more  firm  on  the 
hills.  The  whisky  began  to  lose  its  effect,  and 

(  123  ) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

he  remembered  all  that  he  had  ever  heard  of 
"wolf"  teams.  Strangely  a  fear  grew  within 
him;  like  a  stream  that  swept  him  along,  power 
less,  and  he  watched  the  dogs  furtively. 

No  sign  yet.  They  plodded  ahead  sullenly, 
heads  low,  tongues  streaming.  He  pulled  out 
the  flask  and  took  a  drink.  "That's  better,"  he 
whispered,  as  the  hot  liquid  ran  down  his  throat. 
"Hai-a  marse!"  The  animals  pulled  away 
sluggishly.  Thicker  and  thicker  came  the  snow, 
deadening  the  click  of  his  snowshoes  as  he 
strode,  clogging  his  way.  He  took  another 
drink  soon,  and  the  way  seemed  easy,  the  world 
a  glorious  thing,  success  within  his  grasp.  "I'll 
bust  that  crowd!"  he  muttered. 

Drink  after  drink,  hour  after  hour  was 
passed,  till  the  bottle  was  empty.  "Hell !"  He 
threw  it  away.  The  whip  thong  was  red  with 
blood  from  the  vicious  blows.  All  night  he  kept 
on,  the  alcohol  stirring  his  blood,  urging  his 
mind  to  false  action,  forcing  his  muscles  to  work. 
Daylight  found  him  over  the  hills,  heading  for 
the  Crooked  Plains  and  keeping  his  course  fairly 
well  for  Skagway;  the  dogs  bleeding  at  every 
step,  snarling  at  every  curl  of  the  whip,  snapping 
at  each  other  in  their  distress.  Little  by  little 
(124) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

the  fumes  wore  away,  and  the  hints,  whisperings, 
of  the  savagery  of  the  "wolf"  teams  came  to 
him  stronger  than  before. 

"They're  a-lookin'  at  me  now,"  he  said  un 
easily,  as  Swift,  the  shaggy  leader,  turned  his 
dripping  jaws  toward  him  from  time  to  time. 
Still  the  team  kept  on  obediently,  and  the  snow 
softness  grew  into  a  crust  as  he  came  down  to 
ward  Taku  River.  He  tried  to  sit  on  the  sledge, 
but  his  weight  was  just  enough  to  force  the  run 
ners  through,  and  the  dogs  would  stop,  eyeing 
him.  He  had  to  walk.  The  whisky  was  past 
stimulation;  he  felt  no  hunger,  the  team  did; 
their  pulls  became  weaker  and  weaker,  then  they 
stopped  again. 

"They're  a-watchin'  me !"  he  grumbled,  and 
tried  to  beat  them  into  movement.  No  use.  'At 
each  whine  of  the  lash  and  snap  of  its  tip  they 
huddled  closer  together  and  growled.  As  it 
was  hopeless  to  attempt  more,  Black  Dan  got 
some  food  and  squatted  on  the  snow.  Swift 
came  forward  with  a  sneaking  step,  eyes  aflame. 
"God!"  the  man  screamed,  leaping  to  his  feet; 
he  lashed  the  brute;  it  retreated,  mane  stiff,  fangs 
showing.  He  had  to  eat  standing,  the  dogs 
watching  him  the  while  with  starving  eyes;  then 
(125) 


he  tossed  them  the  remains,  and  they  fought  for 
it,  tangling  the  harness.  When  Black  Dan  was 
ready  he  tried  to  undo  the  mess;  Swift  foamed 
and  crouched  when  he  approached. 

"Damn  yu,  I  ain't  afeard!"  But  there  was 
a  quiver  in  the  tones.  By  dint  of  kicks  and  beat 
ings  he  got  the  harness  straight.  He  slipped  as 
he  started. 

"No  fallin'  down!"  The  whispered  words 
of  a  friendly  Indian,  as  he  left  the  night  before, 
forced  themselves  on  him,  grew  in  his  ears  till 
the  very  wind  seemed  to  shriek  them.  Was  it 
his  fancy,  or  did  the  dogs  keep  their  eyes  on  him 
continually?  Did  they  wait  for  him  to  fall? 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  fall,"  he  shouted  in  answer 
to  his  thoughts,  and  lashed  away. 

Then  the  sun  burst  forth,  dazzling  his  eyes 
with  its  violent  glare.  Spots  of  blue  appeared 
between  the  rifts  in  the  snow  clouds  and  the 
wind  came  less  harshly. 

"My  God,  fer  some  whisky!"  Dan  whim 
pered  as  he  felt  the  current  of  fear  sweeping, 
sweeping  him  on,  his  body  and  mind  too  tired  to 
resist.  Again  he  attempted  to  sit  down;  Swift 
turned  each  time;  the  seven  others  waited, 
watching.  The  man  now  was  the  one  to  strug- 
(  126) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

gle,  and  the  fight  was  hard  against  nature, 
against  the  fear  that  was  slowly  maddening  him. 

"I  killed  Jake,  mu  fust  mu'der!"  he  whis 
pered  again  and  again;  the  dogs  swung  their 
heads,  studying  him,  almost  as  though  they  were 
wondering  how  much  longer  he  would  last,  so 
it  seemed  to  Dan. 

"No  fallin'  down!"  The  words  seared  his 
mind,  crazed  him  by  their  suggestion.  Hour 
after  hour  he  stuck  to  it,  picking  each  step  with 
assiduous  care.  The  face  of  the  man  he  had 
killed,  with  the  shadow  of  agony  on  it,  stood 
before  him  often  and  frightened  him  still  more. 

"No  fallin'  down  !"  Yet  he  began  to  slip  and 
totter  on  his  snowshoes.  "Curse  the  luck,"  he 
mumbled;  "cyant  I  stand  up?  Ha!"  He  almost 
fell.  The  dogs  saw  and  turned.  "Marse!"  as 
he  recovered  himself;  the  whip  sang  again  and 
again  in  the  bitter  air. 

"I'll  show  yu !"  Then  he  swore  till  his  voice 
was  gone.  His  powerlessness  struck  him  like  a 
blow.  The  team  seemed  to  realize,  and  hesi 
tated  in  their  traces.  Often  now  he  slipped, 
caught  the  toes  of  the  shoes  and  stumbled  badly. 
The  harder  he  tried  the  worse  he  became.  Night 
grew  slowly,  darkening  the  distances,  hiding 
(  127) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

the  long  plains  in  misty  gloom.  Tears  in  his 
eyes,  the  man  crawled  along,  the  dogs  barely 
moving.  "That's  it,"  as  he  fell  on  one  knee. 
"No,  by  Heaven,  not  yet !"  as  he  picked  himself 
up.  Swift  saw,  but  kept  on  when  the  thong  cut 
a  bit  of  fur  from  him.  At  last  Black  Dan  knew 
that  he  could  do  no  more.  One  final  attempt  to 
lie  down,  but  the  team  crowded  as  close  as  they 
dared,  snarling.  He  went  on  a  few  paces.  "The 
whip,  my  whip!"  he  groaned.  In  his  fear  he 
had  lost  it,  and  dared  not  turn  his  back  to  the 
dogs.  Overhead  the  cold-glittering  stars  of  a 
mid-winter  night  shone  strangely  far  away, 
twinkling  with  eerie  effect.  The  aurora  glowed 
in  the  eastern  heavens,  bulging  with  clouds  of 
nebulous  light.  The  wind  had  gone;  everything 
was  silent  save  for  the  panting  of  the  dogs  and 
the  liquid  lap-lap  of  their  tongues.  The  man's 
knees  refused  to  carry  his  huge  bulk. 

"No  fallin'  down !"  He  saw  the  words  in 
letters  of  fire,  and  understood  their  full  meaning 
as  the  brutes  sat  about  him,  waiting — waiting. 

"If  I  fall,  they'll  tear  me  ter  bits,"  he  whis 
pered  aloud;  then,  "Sha'n't  do  it,  s'help  me!" 

Wearily,  slowly,  he  undid  the  knots  in  the 
rope  that  fastened  the  blanket  to  the  sledge; 
(128) 


THE    CURRENT    OF    FEAR 

wrangled  off  the  harness,  lifted  the  long  thing, 
and  by  dint  of  many  poundings  drove  it  into 
the  snow,  not  very  far,  because  he  was  weak,  but 
far  enough  for  his  purpose.  The  dogs  edged 
closer  in  a  half  circle;  he  kicked  at  them.  With 
his  back  to  the  support,  he  managed  to  lash  him 
self  securely,  so  that  when  he  relaxed  the  upright 
sledge  held  him. 

"Thar,  yu  cowards,  ye  dassent  touch  me !  I'll 
rest  awhile,  and  git  ye  inter  Skagway  yit!" 

Then  all  was  still.  The  night  became  freez 
ing  cold  at  the  approach  of  dawn.  A  drowsi 
ness  came  over  Dan.  "This  is  great!"  he  stut 
tered,  feeling  himself  warm  and  comfortable. 
His  head  sank  on  his  chest  and  he  was  quiet,  the 
team  still  waiting. 

They  did  not  know. 


(  129) 


One   of  Three 

"T^ON!"  Guillaume  Bouchard  shouted, 
1-^^  crashing  his  heavy  fist  on  the  board 
M  M  counter.  "Napoleon  no  de  grreates' 
man  en  de  worrl' !  Dat  feller  ees  Laurier,  by 
Gar,  Laurier !"  Moutin,  the  storekeeper,  leaned 
forward,  his  little  black  eyes  sparkling  with 
enjoyment  of  the  argument.  The  store  was 
close  and  hot,  and  the  air  thick  with  the  reek  and 
fumes  of  many  pipes.  Here  were  gathered  all 
the  gossips  and  wise  men  of  the  tiny  Quebec 
village,  according  to  time-worn  custom,  and  the 
debate  to-night  was  an  especially  good  one.  Old 
Pere  Donvalle  nodded  slowly,  then  in  the  silence 
after  Guillaume's  assertion  he  took  the  clay  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  stroked  his  long,  gray  beard 
premeditatively  and  spoke: 

"Bon,  Guillaume,  mon  garqon,  eef  you  t'ink 
no  man  so  beeg  en  le  monde  as  Laurier,  vat  you 
goin'  say  ven  Ah  say  dat  Laurier  no  so  grand 
as  le  Jesu  Christ?  Hein?" 

Murmurs  from  the  group  showed  that  this 
(  133  ) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


indeed  was  a  hard  proposition,  and  they  all 
waited  gravely  for  Bouchard's  answer.  The 
low-hanging  lamp  shed  but  weak  rays  of  yellow 
light  that  scarce  reached  the  walls,  and  only 
vaguely  illumined  the  neat  rows  of  frying  pans 
and  kettles  that  were  strung  in  precise  lines  from 
the  smoke-darkened  roof  beams.  The  clusters 
of  rubber  boots  and  shoepacks  seemed  blacker 
than  ever,  and  bunches  of  brooms  dangled  for 
lornly  at  all  angles.  Guillaume,  a  huge  lumber 
man  of  magnificent  physique,  viciously  gnawed 
a  chew  of  tobacco  from  his  plug,  and  stared 
fixedly  at  the  open  door  of  the  big  round  stove, 
whence  came  comfortable  beams  of  heat. 

Moutin  touched  Bouchard  playfully  on  the 
ear:  "You  an'  Josephe  an'  Raphael,  you  got  all 
arrange  'bout  Lucille,  hein?" 

"Par  Dieu,  non,"  Josephe  Bouchard  laughed 
from  across  the  store,  "broddaire  Guillaume  ees 
slow  lak  de  molass';  run  up  de  hill  when  she's 
col' !" 

"Oui,  so  slow  lak  de  moose  go  'long  een  de 
deep  snow!"  and  Raphael  St.  George  chuckled. 

Guillaume's  strong,  heavy  face  wrinkled  with 
amusement.  "You  attends,  you  fellers;  to-night 
Ah  goin'  starrt  een  hour  for  Camp  Seex,  be  back 
(134) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


to-mor'  apres-midi,  den  we  mak'  see  'bout  dees 
affaire;  dat  agreable?" 

"Le  Camp  Seex?    Why  for?"  Moutin  asked. 

"De  Boss,  he  say  for  me  breeng  hup  de  tele- 
gramme  w'en  she  comme,  an'  maudit,  she  ees 
arrive  jus'  taim  suppaire,  damn!" 

"  'Ow  you  goin',  by  de  Run  Roun'  or  by  de 
longue  traverse?" 

"Ah  t'ink  Ah  go  longue  traverse;  de  snow  she 
no  so  bad  for  de  dog  dat  way."  As  he  spoke, 
Guillaume  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  It 
was  a  glorious  mid-winter  night.  At  his  feet 
the  ice-bound  river  twined  its  frozen  shape  past 
the  village  out  to  the  open  country,  where  its 
contour  melted  into  the  white  that  covered  every 
thing,  and  was  lost.  The  glittering  stars  sent 
steel-like  shafts  of  light  to  the  earth,  while  the 
setting  moon  dispersed  the  fading  shadows  and 
glistened  on  the  chimney  pots  of  the  compact 
little  mass  of  houses.  Here  and  there  shone 
twinkling  lamps  that  seemed  to  warm  Guil 
laume,  notwithstanding  the  bitter  sting  of  freez 
ing  in  the  air;  as  he  watched,  a  figure  came  run 
ning  up  the  hill  on  which  the  store  was  built;  it 
reached  him. 

"Eh,  you  grand  bebe,"  a  cheery  voice  laughed 

(135) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


from  under  a  heavy  shawl,  "no  tak'  all  de  door." 
The  figure  brushed  by  him  into  the  house.  He 
followed  it. 

"Bien,  Lucille,  you  no  go  bed  'tall?"  Moutin 
asked,  as  he  deftly  unwound  the  cloth  from  the 
girl's  head  and  throat. 

"Bien  sure,  Grandpere,  onlee  Grandmamman 
she  want  for  de  1'huile  a  leetle,  so  den  Ah  come," 
and  she  glanced  roguishly  at  the  three,  Guil- 
laume,  Josephe  and  Raphael,  that  crowded 
about  her  as  close  as  they  could. 

"Petite  coquette!"  Moutin  chortled,  rubbing 
his  thin,  worn  old  hands  gleefully  the  while; 
"ef  you  know  dat  dese  t'ree  gardens  here,  Ah 
goin'  mak'  de  bet  you  no  come  for  de  1'huile !" 

"You  say  too  much  dose  t'ings,  Grandpere," 
but  Lucille's  big  brown  eyes  danced  with  mis 
chief,  and  she  tossed  her  head  merrily. 

"Why  toi  no  come  to-day  cut  de  wood  for 
me  ?"  She  took  hold  of  Josephe's  coat.  "Lazee, 
hein?  Bah,  mauvais  gargon!" 

"No  lazee  'tall,  Lucille;  onlee  Guillaume  an' 
Josephe  an'  moi,  we  mak'  arrange  for  no  go 
cut  wood,  no  do  netting  teel  you  say  w'at  mans 
we  t'ree  you  goin'  marrier,  voila !" 

"C'estvrai?" 

(136) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


"Si,  dat  trrue!"  the  other  two  answered 
together. 

Most  of  the  group  that  had  been  in  the  store 
had  gone  home;  those  that  remained,  however, 
smothered  their  chucklings  to  listen. 

The  girl  looked  at  the  three  big  men  in  pretty 
defiance. 

"You  t'ink  you  all  somt'ing  magnifique  for 
to  mak'  sooch  talk  to  moi !  Bon,  Ah  goin'  see 
w'at  you  do!  (^a  for  you!"  and  she  snapped 
her  fingers  in  derision. 

"Par  Dieu,"  growled  Raphael,  good-na 
turedly,  making  a  grab  for  her.  She  was  too 
quick,  picking  up  the  oil  can,  her  shawl,  and 
darting  out  of  the  door,  apparently  all  in  one 
motion. 

The  three  stared  at  one  another. 

"Sapristi !  you,  Guillaume,  by  Gar,  you  was 
de  wan  w'at  say  for  do  dees  way  weet  la  petite ! 
Sacree,  eet  no  goin'  worrk!" 

"Nev'  min',  gardens,  ev't'ing  be  fus'-class 
by'm-by." 

Moutin  climbed  slowly  on  the  sugar  barrel 
to  put  out  the  lamp  as  he  spoke. 

"Bon  soi',  bon  soi',  Moutin,"  and  the  three 
departed,  leaving  him  to  lock  up  with  the  pon- 

(  137) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


derous  key  that  scraped  and  squeaked  shrilly  in 
its  lock. 

"Be  back  to-mor'  certain?" 

"Bien  sure,"  Guillaume  answered,  as  he 
turned  in  at  the  little  gate  in  the  picket  fence 
that  surrounded  his  tiny  home.  "Au  revoir." 

"Au  revoir,  Guillaume."  The  other  two 
passed  on,  the  sound  of  their  voices  sinking  grad 
ually  away  down  the  silent  road. 

Guillaume  pushed  his  door  open  and  walked 
in.  A  warm  little  blaze  flickered  and  fluttered 
on  the  stone  hearth,  its  light  showing  up  the 
colored  prints  and  old-fashioned  pictures  on  the 
low  walls.  In  the  center  was  a  large  one  of 
Laurier. 

"Guille,  c'est  toi?"  came  a  strange,  thin  voice 
from  behind  a  partition. 

"Oui,  Mamman,  Ah  goin'  Camp  Seex  jus' 
queeck." 

uEet  ver' col',  hein,  Guille?" 

"No  so  bad  lak'  las'  night,  Mamman." 

"You  comme  back  to-mor',  je  suppose!" 

"Oui,  Mamman,  bon  soi',  cherie." 

"Bon  soi',  mon  fils!" 

Guillaume  went  to  his  corner  of  the  sleeping 
attic,  found  his  heavy  mitts  and  stockings,  his 
(  138) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


coarse  woolen  muffler,  and  his  sheepskin-lined 
capote;  then  he  went  softly  down  again.  From 
a  cupboard  he  got  some  meat  and  bread  and 
stuffed  it  in  his  great  pockets. 

"By  Gar,  eet  plenty  col' !"  he  whispered  to 
himself  as  he  closed  the  door  tightly  behind 
him.  The  dogs  in  the  warm,  thatched  stable 
whimpered  and  whined  as  he  came  among 
them. 

"Nannette,  Mouton,  Pierrot,  Vitesse,"  he 
whistled  softly.  Like  gray  shadows  the  four 
rustled  from  their  hay  beds  and  scampered  out. 
Quickly  he  harnessed  them  to  the  light  sledge 
and  sat  himself  comfortably  on  it. 

"Marche!"  and  away  they  went;  out  of  the 
yard  gate,  flying  down  the  silvery  road  and  from 
that  into  the  somberness  of  the  mute  forest.  On 
and  on,  now  across  openings  between  the  trees 
where  the  snow  shone  cold  and  brilliant,  now 
through  tall,  majestically  silent  groves  of  heavy 
Norway  pine,  then  down  to  and  along  the  frozen 
river  where  the  night  light  was  perfect.  Foxes 
scuttled  away  before  this  thing  that  moved  so 
fast  and  so  quietly,  and  once  as  the  whee-ing 
sledge  passed  under  a  gigantic  fir,  an  owl, 
startled  from  its  watching,  gave  a  muffled  Hoo! 
(  139  ) 


ONE    OF    THREE 


and  sailed  over  his  head  to  the  darker  shades  of 
the  forest  on  the  other  bank. 

Traveling  rapidly,  the  swift  motion  created  a 
drowsiness;  try  as  he  would  his  eyelids  would 
droop,  and  in  this  semi-conscious  state  he  imag 
ined  that  he  was  talking  to  Lucille. 

"You  no  marrie  me?"  he  muttered  thickly, 
then  a  pause. 

"Ah  loove  you  so  mooch,  petite,  mak'  nice 
home,  ev't'ing  for  you."  Another  pause.  "Ah 
know  Josephe  he  loove  you,  an'  Raphael  aussi, 
but  moi,  ha !  Ah  loove  you  lak'  Laurier  he 
loove  le  Canadaw!"  A  long  silence  this  time, 
then,  "Fair  play  for  t'ree?  Bon,  Ah'm  satisfy, 
but  w'en  you  goin'  decider?"  A  short  hesita 
tion  and  he  hurried  on,  his  words  clear  and 
strong.  "You  say  you  goin'  marrier  de  man  dat 
have  bessis'  courage?"  In  an  instant  he  spoke 
again.  "Ah  oon'stan',  petite,  Ah  goin'  try!" 

Just  then  the  sledge  struck  a  branch  that  had 
been  frozen;  it  lurched,  rose  on  one  runner,  then 
settled  back  with  a  crash.  This  thoroughly 
wakened  Bouchard,  and  he  began  to  whistle 
jauntily.  As  the  stars  dimmed  one  by  one  and 
the  air  became  sharper  and  more  biting,  he 
guided  the  dogs  off  the  river  on  to  a  wood  road. 


ONE    OF   THREE 


Along  this  they  dashed,  cleverly  avoiding  the 
deep  ruts  made  by  the  log  sledges  from  day  to 
day  as  they  transported  monster  loads  from  the 
cuttings  to  the  river  landings. 

When  the  chill  grays  and  blues  of  a  winter 
dawn  lightened  the  eastern  horizon,  Guillaume 
reached  Camp  Six.  The  men  were  just  getting 
up,  and  the  smoke  from  the  cook  fires  rose 
straight  into  the  air. 

The  foreman  ran  out. 

"Holy  tickets,  I'm  glad  ye've  come!" 

"Wat's  mattaire?"  Bouchard  asked,  as  he 
stood  up  slowly,  stiff  from  the  long  ride. 

"Mike  Lawson  damn  near  cut  his  leg  off  yes 
terday;  he's  purty  near  dead  now,  but  if  any  one 
can  save  him  you  can,  by  taking  him  as  quick  as 
God  '11  let  you  with  your  dogs;  the  horses 
couldn't  get  down  to  the  village  now  !" 

Guillaume  stood  still  for  a  moment;  then,  the 
facts  having  thoroughly  soaked  into  his  mind, 
"Bon,"  he  said;  "Ah  tak'  heem,  but  dogs  mus' 
have  for  eat!" 

"Sure,  man,  sure;  hurry  up,  by  jiminy, 
hurry  up !" 

Bouchard  got  some  food  for  the  four  that 
stood  panting  from  their  fast  pace,  and  while 
(I4O 


ONE    OF   THREE 


they  ate  he  swallowed  a  steamlng-hot  pan  of  tea 
and  gulped  down  a  handful  of  bread  and  pork. 

"Readee!"  he  shouted.  Five  men  carefully 
brought  the  unfortunate  Lawson  to  the  sledge. 
The  man  was  as  weak  as  a  child,  and  suffering 
great  pain.  His  left  leg  was  swathed  in  strips 
of  cloth,  blankets,  anything  that  they  could  find 
in  camp  to  stop  the  bleeding,  but  the  red  flow 
had  soaked  through,  and  it  turned  black  in  the 
freezing  air. 

"Easy,  boys,  easy!"  Lawson  whispered  as 
they  laid  him  on  a  pile  of  bagging  which  Guil- 
laume  had  fastened  to  the  sledge. 

"Thanks,  boys,  you've  been  mighty  good  to 
me,"  the  poor  fellow  called  weakly  as  Bouchard 
seated  himself  on  the  little  space  he  had  left  at 
the  rear  of  the  sledge  for  the  purpose. 

"That's  O.K.,  Mike;  good  luck  to  ye,  son!" 
the  whole  crew  shouted  as  they  sped  off. 

The  dogs  did  their  best,  Guillaume  urging 
them  on  from  time  to  time,  but  what  with  the 
heavy  load  arid  the  run  they  had  just  finished, 
the  pace  was  not  as  fast  as  before.  The  sun  was 
up  now,  but  its  rays  could  barely  be  felt;  pale 
and  sickly  it  looked,  peering  out  now  and  then 
from  the  heavy,  soggy  masses  of  snow  clouds. 
(142) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


They  came  to  the   river  again;  the  speed  in 
creased  here. 

"'Ow,  was  dat  you  cut " 

Cra-a-ack!  Sw-a-a-asssssh !  The  ice,  thin 
here  over  swift  water,  had  let  them  through, 
dogs,  sledge  and  all ! 

Guillaume  grabbed  the  wounded  man  by  his 
capote  collar;  they  both  went  under  for  an  in 
stant,  but  luckily  when  the  ice  broke  it  did  so 
over  a  large  circumference,  so  that  when  Bou 
chard  came  to  the  surface,  pulling  Lawson  after 
him,  they  had  not  been  swept  under  the  ice 
beyond  by  the  current. 

"Oh,  Dieu,  oh,  Dieul"  Guillaume  shouted 
this  again  and  again  in  his  excitement  and  fear 
for  Lawson.  The  latter  had  lost  consciousness. 
By  dint  of  crushing  the  weak  edges  of  the  hole 
with  his  free  arm,  Guillaume  reached  strong  ice 
and  struggled  out,  dragging  the  other.  He 
stared  at  the  senseless  man. 

uOh,  bon  Dieu  an'  Laurier,  w'at  do,  w'at 
do?" 

He  felt  the  man's  pulse;  it  was  fairly  strong. 
Ice  was  forming  on  both  of  them;  indeed, 
when  Guillaume  moved,  even  now,  his  clothes 
crackled. 

(H3) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


"Eet  two  mile  a  half  f'om  here;  Ah  goin' 
carry  heem,  par  Dieu !" 

No  sooner  had  he  decided  what  to  do  than 
he  did  it. 

He  got  Lawson  on  his  own  powerful  back, 
with  the  cut  leg  stuck  forward  through  the  crook 
of  his  arm,  and  he  started. 

The  violent  exertion  soon  warmed  him 
through,  but  the  other's  clothes  froze  fast  to 
Guillaume's.  He  hurried  frantically  on,  the 
dogs,  their  harness  dragging,  following  behind. 
In  less  than  an  hour  he  saw  the  village  in  the 
white  distance  and  renewed  his  efforts.  Pere 
Donvalle  saw  him  coming,  and  men  came  out  to 
help.  Josephe  and  Raphael  were  the  first  to 
reach  him. 

"Dat  too  damn  badl"  Josephe  said  as  Guil- 
laume,  breathless,  gasped  out  the  story. 

"Tak'  heem  queeck  to  le  Docteur,  queeck  you 
can!"  he  begged,  as  the  other  two  relieved  him 
of  his  heavy  load.  They  staggered  off,  Guil- 
laume  coming  more  slowly. 

As  he  drew  nearer  his  eyes  sought  Lucille's 

home ;  he  looked,  but  somehow  he  could  not  find 

it  in  its  accustomed  place.     He  rubbed  his  face 

and  searched  again ;  then  he  saw  a  few  charred 

(  144) 


He  hurried  frantically  on 


ONE    OF   THREE 


embers,  that  was  all.     A  pang  of  agony  went 
through  his  every  fiber. 

"Lucille,  Lucille!"  he  cried  aloud  and  ran  on. 

With  tears  in  his  eyes  he  came  to  the  house, 
and  was  dully  looking  at  the  remains  when  an 
adored  voice  called  him. 

"Guillaume,  grand  bebe !"  He  looked  up  at 
the  heavens  first,  and  then  saw  Lucille  coming 
from  a  neighbor's  home. 

"Dieu  and  Laurier,  merci!" 

"You'  Mamman  an'  Grandmamman  an' 
Adolphe?"  He  scarcely  dared  listen  to  her 
answer. 

"All  sauf  by  Raphael  an'  Josephe;  dey  have 
du  grand  courage !" 

His  heart  sank  within  him  at  her  words,  and 
he  suddenly  realized  that  he  was  terribly  cold; 
he  turned  away  sadly,  when  she  spoke  again. 

"Toi  aussi,  you  have  du  grand  courage  !"  He 
came  back  swiftly,  his  arms  half  outstretched, 
then  he  remembered  the  arrangement;  no,  he 
could  not  in  honor  take  advantage  of  Josephe 
and  Raphael's  absence  to  glorify  himself. 

"Wen  you  are  dress  an'  warrm  an'  have  eat, 
comme  to  de  store;  Ah  have  som'ting  for  to 
say."     Lucille  disappeared  in  the  house. 
d45) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


With  a  feeling  of  an  impending  great  event 
Guillaume  changed  his  clothes,  had  a  drink  of 
"w'isky  blanc,"  a  bite  to  eat,  then  he  rushed  out, 
having  scarcely  told  his  mother  anything,  though 
she  clamored  for  information. 

To  his  astonishment  the  store  was  crowded 
when  he  got  there ;  every  one  in  the  village  was 
on  hand,  all  in  their  best  clothes.  He  did  not 
understand. 

"Aha,  Guillaume,  w'at  Ah  tell  to  you  ?"  Old 
Moutin  grinned.  "Lucille  she  goin'  mak' 
choose  maintenant !" 

The  faces,  the  kettles,  the  boots,  everything 
danced  for  a  moment  before  Guillaume's  eyes, 
but  he  gathered  himself. 

Josephe  and  Raphael  came  then  and  the  three 
stood  silently  together. 

A  happy  laugh,  a  little  song,  and  Lucille 
appeared;  the  three  drew  long  breaths. 

"Dat  Lawson,  'ow  ees  he?"  she  asked  of 
Josephe.  The  latter  coughed,  stuttered  and 
looked  at  Raphael,  who  nodded  solemnly. 

"De  Docteur  say  he  goin'  get  well,  but  dat 
eef  Guillaume  had  no  breeng  heem  so  fas',  den 
— la  mort!" 

The  crowd  sighed  in  admiration. 
(146) 


ONE    OF   THREE 


"Merci,  my  broddaire  an'  my  frien' !"  Bou 
chard  stammered. 

"No  merci  necessaire;  dees  ees  fair  play  een 
honeur!"  Raphael  answered,  and  the  three  drew 
themselves  up  proudly. 

The  girl  looked  at  each.  "Pleas'  go  dere," 
she  said,  pointing  to  an  open  space  by  the  coun 
ter.  Then  she  was  silent.  Men  and  women 
stood  on  cracker  boxes,  bags  of  flour,  anything 
that  would  lift  them  up,  for  was  this  not  the 
engagement  of  their  favorite  to  one  of  three 
men  that  worshiped  her,  and  for  each  of  whom 
she  had  a  warm  corner  in  her  heart? 

"My  frien's,  Ah  goin'  marrie  dees  man  I" 
She  ran  lightly  across  and  threw  her  arms  about 
one  of  the  three.  The  group  laughed  and 
shouted,  cheering  and  crying  out  good  fortune 
and  happiness.  Then  they  all  departed  silently, 
leaving  the  girl  and  her  choice,  while  the  snow- 
flakes  drifted  slowly  to  earth  and  the  church  bell 
tolled  the  vesper  hour. 


(147) 


A    Day's   Work   in    the   Mounted 
Police 


A   Day's  Work  in   the   Mounted 
Police 

"A  NY  complaints?" 

/%  One  of  the  mounted  policemen  slid 
.JL  m  wearily  from  his  saddle  as  he  spoke. 

A  November  sky  spread  the  cold  yellow  hues 
of  a  stormy  sunset  over  the  endless  prairies,  and 
a  chill,  strong  wind  mourned  its  desolate  way 
through  the  horses'  tails,  whistling  around  the 
corners  of  the  squatter's  shed  with  a  doleful 
whine  that  rose  and  fell  monotonously. 

A  woman  had  come  to  the  low  door  in  answer 
to  their  halloo  and  the  two  men  looked  at  her 
disconsolately.  She  rubbed  her  work-worn 
hands  together  nervously. 

"No  ther  hain't,  leastways" — she  hesitated 
and  looked  keenly  past  the  horses,  seeking  to 
pierce  the  winter's  gloom  that  lay  heavy  over 
the  bare  landscape — "leastways,  none  that  I  can 
tell  on,"  she  continued,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice. 
"Jim  ain't  ter  hum;  ye'd  best  stay  th'  night;  it's 

(ISO 


A    DAY'S    WORK 


er  goin'  ter  snow,  I  guess,  by  th'  feelin'.  Yer 
kin  stable  yer  critters  down  in  th'  shed  an' 
welcome." 

"I  reckon  we'd  better,  Fred;  it's  a  long  thirty 
mile  to  old  Ned  Blake's,  and  /  think  snow's 
a-comin',  too." 

The  other  nodded  and,  still  mounted,  walked 
his  horse  toward  the  shed.  The  first  speaker 
followed,  leading  his  animal.  The  long,  rick 
ety  building  was  down  in  a  little  roll  of  the 
prairie,  and  as  the  two  approached  it  a  forlorn 
old  hen  cackled  harshly,  and  a  pig,  disturbed  by 
the  sound  of  the  horses'  feet,  grunted  and  rustled 
in  the  straw. 

"Who's  the  old  gal,  Bert?"  Fred  asked,  as 
he  undid  his  girths,  the  horse  playfully  nibbling 
his  shoulder. 

"Sho,  forgot  ye  warn't  over  this  route  yet; 
she's  widder  Gleeson;  a  feller  called  Jim  Ste 
phens  lives  yere;  kinder  helps  round  the  farm, 
y'  know !"  and  they  both  chuckled. 

Bert  Saunders  was  an  old  member  of  the 
N.  W.  M.  P.*  The  years  had  grown  on  his 
broad  back  in  the  service,  and,  as  he  said,  "I 
hain't  no  good  for  nawthin'  else." 

*  Northwest  Mounted  Police. 

(152) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


With  gray  hair  and  deep-set  eyes  that  were 
hardly  to  be  seen  behind  fierce,  bushy  eyebrows, 
Saunders  showed  that  if  age  brings  experience, 
he  must  have  his  full  share  of  it.  The  other  was 
a  young  man;  tall,  well  built,  a  good  horseman, 
with  a  "good  eye,"  but  old  Saunders  would 
quietly  suggest  that  "he  was  a  leetle  too  quick." 

"Th'  widder  seems  to  hev  sum'n  on  her 
mind,"  Bert  remarked,  as  they  went  back  to  the 
house,  "but  'tain't  nawthin'  excitin',  I'll  bet; 
mabbe  she's  lost  a  calf,  or  mabbe  ol'  Jim  got 
some  whisky  som'ere." 

"Set  ye  down,  boys,  set  right  down  near,  till 
I  gets  ye  some  vittles."  The  old  woman  hur 
ried  about,  pottering  among  the  kitchen  imple 
ments,  or  rather  makeshifts  for  them,  and  rat 
tling  vigorously  in  a  huge  tin  box  that  served  as 
tea-bag,  salt-cellar,  meat  holder  and  bread 
basket. 

"Queer  old  place,"  Fred  muttered,  looking 
about  as  they  stood  by  the  fire. 

"Yes,"  Saunders  answered,  in  a  whisper,  "an' 
ther  used  to  be  some  queer  doin's  too,  when 
she" — he  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  kitchen 
— "was  a  young  'oman." 

The  inside  of  the  main  room  was  dark  and 
(153) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


dingy  with  age  and  dirt.  A  huge  four-poster 
bed  stood  in  one  corner,  the  blankets  on  it  rolled 
up  in  a  tangled  heap,  and  the  shabby,  ragged  pil 
lows  had  evidently  been  used  as  footstools.  Old 
cowhide  boots  stuck  out  from  beneath  the  bed, 
and  overalls  with  a  strange  assortment  of  clothes 
dangled  ungracefully  from  pegs  all  about.  The 
candles  spluttered  and  flickered,  giving  out  but 
faint,  weak  rays  of  light  that  scarce  illumined 
the  long,  narrow  room. 

"Thar,  ye  kin  eat!"  Widow  Gleeson  drew 
up  the  dangerously  tottering  stools,  and  seated 
herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  while  the  two  men 
began  their  supper.  For  some  minutes  nothing 
was  to  be  heard  but  the  metallic  clinking  of  the 
tinware,  and  the  gurgling  sips  Saunders  took  of 
the  hot  tea. 

"I'm  damn  glad  we're  in  here,  instead  of 

fightin'  our  way  to  Blake's;  listen  to  that " 

Fred  said  then. 

"Gosh,  yes!" 

The  threatened  snow  had  come  outside, 
brought  by  a  gale  of  wind.  The  particles  were 
hard  frozen  and  battered  viciously  in  their  mil 
lion  numbers  against  the  walls,  while  the  wind 
screamed  fitfully.  When  supper  was  over  the 
(154) 


A    DAY'S    WORK 


men  got  out  their  pipes  and  smoked  by  the  crack 
ling  fire,  whose  flames  shot  up  the  flue  in  straight, 
roaring  lines,  drawn  by  the  fierce  draught. 

"No  complaints,  d'ye  say,  Widder?"  Bert 
asked  slowly,  rubbing  the  tobacco  fine  between 
his  palms.  She  fidgeted  nervously,  then  hesi 
tated  again,  seemingly  listening  for  something. 

"Nawthin'  that  I  can  tell  on,  but  Jim,  he 
hain't  been  good  ter  me  lately;  hit  me  with  th' 
axe  handle  two  weeks  'go,  an'  cussed  som'n  orful 
becos  I  didn't  have  no  whisky;  ye  boys  know  thet 
since  ye've  be'n  so  sharp  a-watchin'  them  fellers 
'cross  the  line  it's  purty  hard  ter  get  whisky, 
ain't  it,  now?"  she  finished,  appealingly. 

"Yes,  Widder,  we're  lookin'  arter  'em  purty 
close  now,  sure,"  and  Saunders  laughed;  "it's 
tol'ably  hard  ter  run  th'  liquor  over  inter  Can- 
ady  now!  Wall,  what  about  Jim?  What's  he 
done?"  The  chance  question  told,  and  the  old 
woman  was  startled. 

"How  d'ye  know?"  she  whispered. 

"Don't,  but  I'm  guessin'." 

"Now,  boys,  I  don't  know  nawthin',  but  since 
I  corned  back  from  Uncle  Jack's — I  went  over 
thar  when  Jim   got  c'ntanker'us,   ye   know — I 
seed  som'n  funny  'bout  h'ar;  look  ahere  1" 
(155) 


A    DAY'S    WORK 


She  reached  down  and  pulled  out  one  of  the 
cowhide  boots.  Saunders  examined  the  rough, 
worn  leather  carefully;  then  he  gave  a  short, 
sharp  whistle.  Any  one  that  knew  Bert's  ways 
would  have  realized  that  something  was  wrong, 
and  Fred  did  know  the  old  fellow  well,  having 
made  many  a  ride  and  route  with  him;  therefore 
he  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

Saunders  turned  the  boot  over  and  over. 

"How  long's  Jim  had  these  yer  boots?" 

"They  hain't  hisn!"  the  woman  answered 
quickly. 

"Oh,  ho!  so  they  hain't  Jim's?  Did  ye  ever 
see  'em  afore?" 

"Um — mm,"  and  a  strong  negative  shake  of 
her  head. 

"Looks  like  blood,  don't  it,  Bert?" 

"Looks  like  blood  an'  es  blood." 

Saunders  put  the  boot  down.  "We'll  look 
round  a  mite,  Widder." 

With  stolid  eyes  the  woman  watched  them 
searching  here  and  there,  peering  into  dark  cor 
ners,  shaking  old  baggings  while  the  dust  rose  in 
clouds. 

"Here's  something!"  Fred  called,  and  held 
up  a  red-stained  block  of  wood  that  he  had 
(156) 


A    DAY'S    WORK 


found  under  the  mess  of  plow  chains  and  old 
metal. 

The  older  man  examined  it  as  carefully  as  he 
had  the  boot,  and  again  whistled  sharply  to  him 
self;  the  block  he  put  by  the  boot. 

"Look  furder,  Fred."  They  hunted  and 
prodded  in  silence,  then  Saunders  turned  on  his 
heel. 

"Looky  here,  Widder,  what  you  got  'gin 
Jim?" 

The  old  woman  seemed  to  shrivel  and  her 
eyes  grew  large  and  black. 

"Nawthin',  'cept  he's  cross  an'  I'm  sick  o' 
him,"  she  answered  shortly. 

"H'm,"  and  they  searched  again. 

"When  did  Jim  go  'way?" 

"Three  days  ago,  jus'  afore  the  last  snow." 

"Where'dhego?" 

"Dunno;  said  as  he  was  goin'  ter  Rickson's, 
but  he  allus  wuz  a  liar." 

"H'm,  Rickson's;  that's  eighty  mile  by  the 
trail,"  Saunders  said  more  to  himself  than  for 
the  benefit  of  the  others. 

"How'd  he  go— ride?" 

"Yep,  took  th'  horse,  an'  I  kin  stay  here  an' 
starve,  or  walk  out,  I  s'pose !" 

(157) 


A    DAY'S    WORK 


They  found  nothing  more,  though  the  search 
had  been  long  and  thorough. 

"What  do  you  think  about  it,  Bert?" 

"I  hain't  thought  'nuff  yet;  let  ye  know  in  th' 
mornin';  better  turn  in  now!" 

He  pulled  off  the  long  service  boots  and 
stretched  his  feet  gratefully  to  the  fire.  The 
old  woman  watched  them  awhile  longer,  then 
took  a  candle  and  crawled  slowly  up  the  shaky 
ladder  that  led  to  the  small  attic  over  one  end  of 
the  long  room. 

"You  boys  kin  hev  the  bed,"  she  called  down. 

Saunders  looked  at  the  mess  of  clothes.  "I 
guess  not  for  mine,  Fred;  I'll  roll  up  in  the 
blankets  right  here." 

"The  same  for  me !"  Fred  got  their  blankets 
from  their  saddle  rolls  they  had  brought  in,  and 
unfolded  them  on  the  rough  floor.  They  took 
off  their  coats,  and  these,  with  the  long  fur  ca 
potes,  made  excellent  pillows. 

When  the  candles  were  out,  and  the  tiny  glows 
at  the  ends  of  the  wicks  had  vanished,  the 
interior  was  dark  save  for  the  ember  glow,  and 
silent  save  for  the  storm  sounds  outside. 

Gust  on  gust  the  fierce  breaths  shook  the  old 
timbers  till  they  creaked,  drone  on  drone  came 
(158) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


from  the  flue,  and  the  bitter  cold  air  found  its 
way  through  the  cracks  in  the  floor,  biting  the 
men's  faces  as  they  lay  rolled  in  the  warm,  blue 
wool  blankets. 

Just  then  the  door  blew  inward,  burst  by  a 
gust  more  powerful  than  the  others. 

"Damn,  damn !"  Fred  grumbled,  as  he  got 
up  slowly  to  close  it.  He  looked  out  first.  It 
was  a  wild  winter's  night  on  the  prairie.  In  the 
faint  snow  sheen  the  short  distances  were  hazy 
and  vague,  laden  with  hurtling  masses  of  white. 
Overhead  the  sky  was  dark,  but  the  heavy  cloud 
banks  were  black,  and  their  dim  shapes  could 
faintly  be  seen  tearing  in  great  rent  and  split 
masses  across  the  heavens.  Fred  shivered  as  he 
pushed  the  boards  into  the  aperture  and  fastened 
it  with  a  bar  of  wood. 

"The  horses  '11  catch  it  t'night,"  he  muttered 
as  he  curled  up  again.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  hardly  asleep  when  something  moving 
caught  his  attention.  He  lay  quiet,  listening 
intently,  trying  to  locate  the  sound.  From  his 
position  he  could  just  see  the  foot  of  the  attic 
ladder,  as  it  was  between  him  and  the  window; 
then  a  black  something  came  between  him  and 
the  faint  white  reflection.  It  moved  aside. 
(159) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


uTh'  old  woman!  What's  she  want?"  he 
whispered,  his  lips  scarcely  moving.  The  dull 
scrape  of  a  sulphur  match  came  to  him  softly  in 
answer,  and  he  shut  his  eyes  to  slits.  The  blue 
flame  spluttered  into  life,  then  came  the  yellow 
shine,  and  he  saw  the  widow  carefully  light  a 
candle  stub  under  cover  of  her  hands.  Its  light 
came  redly  through  the  flesh  of  the  fingers. 

She  looked  a  long  time  at  the  sleeping  men, 
and  the  policeman  felt  his  eyes  twitch  and  jerk 
with  the  strain.  Then  she  turned  her  back  and 
moved  noiselessly  to  the  far  end  of  the  building. 
She  stopped  there,  looking  back,  and  Fred 
started  at  the  ugly  expression  on  her  face.  She 
shook  her  gnarled  fist  at  the  two,  then  leaned 
over  and  began  pulling  and  tugging  at  some  of 
the  floor  boards.  Now  wide  awake  and  alert, 
Fred  sat  up  carefully  under  cover  of  the  blanket 
and  watched.  At  last  she  got  one  of  the  boards 
well  up  and  drew  a  long  something  from  the 
bosom  of  her  tattered  dress.  The  policeman 
looked  hard,  but  could  only  see  that  it  seemed 
black,  and  a  piece  of  cloth. 

As  slowly  the  woman  dropped  the  thing  in 
the  hole,  lowered  the  board,  quietly  replaced  the 
things  that  had  been  on  it  and  turned  to 
(160) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


come  Hack.  Quick  as  he  was  she  saw  Fred 
drop. 

Instantly  the  candle  went  out  and  everything 
was  quiet  save  for  the  weird  sounds  of  the  wind. 

He  felt  for  his  revolver,  and  was  about  to  call 
Saunders,  when  the  bar  at  the  door  was  violently 
pushed  aside,  the  door  itself  flew  open,  and  he 
caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a  muffled  figure 
sneaking  out. 

"Halt  there !"  he  shouted,  but  the  wind 
forced  the  sound  of  his  voice  into  his  throat. 

"W's  matter?"  Saunders  asked,  sleepily. 

"Wake  up,  man,  quick!  Something's 
wrong!" 

As  though  to  the  bugle  call  the  other  was  out 
of  the  blankets  and  on  his  feet,  revolver  in  hand. 
The  two  stood  still  for  an  instant  in  the  dark 
ness,  the  snow  piling  coldly  on  the  floor. 

"The  old  woman's  skedaddled,"  he  called 
then,  and  hurried  over  to  the  corner  where  he 
had  seen  her  mysterious  actions. 

In  his  haste  he  broke  match  after  match  try 
ing  to  get  a  light. 

"Take  it  easy,  boy,  take  it  easy!"  Saunders 
followed  him  over. 

"What's  all  this  anyhow?  What  ye  doin'?" 
(161) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


as  Fred  hauled  at  the  boards,  tossing  everything 
right  and  left.  He  got  them  up  and  the  light 
showed  a  dark,  long  hole  dug  in  the  earth.  He 
leaned  over,  lowering  the  candle. 

"Holy  tickets,  Bert,  look  at  that  I" 

The  other  craned  his  neck.  "He  hain't  be'n 
dead  more'n  two  days  neither!"  he  said  slowly; 
"she's  done  it,  an'  tried  fer  ter  set  us  on  this 
same  pore  feller,  so's  we'd  go  ter  Rickson's  ter- 
morrer  an'  give  her  a  chanst  to  git  out.  The 
ol'  varmint  didn't  expec'  us  till  next  week.  I 
tol'  ye  we  were  early  on  this  route.  Well,  come 
on  an'  find  her;  she  ain't  far  t'night;  hidin'  in 
th'  barn,  mos'  likely.  Hell  of  a  job  to  take  her 
ter  th'  post,  now,  ain't  it?"  So,  talking  quietly, 
with  the  coolness  of  long  years  at  this  sort  of 
work,  Saunders  calmly  pulled  on  his  boots,  while 
the  younger  man  chafed  at  the  delay. 

"Look  out  she  don't  shoot  ye,  Fred;  may  hev 
her  gun,"  he  advised,  as  the  two,  with  lowered 
heads,  went  out  into  the  fury  of  the  night. 

They  reached  the  shed ;  the  thatch  door  was 
wide  open. 

"She's  in  there  all  right."  Saunders  stood  at 
the  entrance.  "Come  out,  ye 

we've  got  ye, ye !" 

(  162  ) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


No  answer. 

Slowly  Bert's  anger  grew,  and  he  swore  at 
the  black  interior. 

His  voice  echoed  each  time  very  faintly  in 
the  straw-smelling  place. 

"Le's  go  in  an'  haul  her  out — come  on!" 

They  went,  and  Fred  struck  a  light. 

"The  horses!"  he  gasped.  Saunders  turned; 
the  horses  were  gone. 

"Out  wi'  ye  quick,  'less  ye  want  ter  walk! 
Strike  fer  Blake's;  she  won't  go  agin'  this 
wind  for  Rickson's,  an'  I  don't  believe  she  can 
manage  them  horses,  not  both  on  'em,  any 
how!" 

They  floundered  on  to  the  trail,  discernible 
only  under  the  snow  by  its  flatness,  and  hurried 
along  it  as  fast  as  they  could.  The  snow  hin 
dered  them  more  and  more,  piling  against  their 
legs  and  creeping  up  under  their  trousers,  where 
it  clung  freezingly. 

"There's  one  of  'em !"  Saunders  shrieked,  as 
a  black  object  came  in  sight  just  off  the  track. 
They  came  up  to  it;  one  of  the  horses,  and 
cleverly  hobbled !  The  poor  brute  stood  there 
helpless,  its  mane  and  tail  heavily  laden  with  ice 
particles,  the  nostrils'  edges  solid  and  eyes  tight 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


frozen.     When  the  hobble  was  cut  it  moved 
stiffly. 

Saunders  started  to  mount.  "Get  out  o'  that," 
and  Fred  shoved  him  aside;  "I'll  go!  Ye  ain't 
fit  to  go  on  such  a  night  as  this;  ye'r  a  better 
man  fer  it,  but  I'm  younger,  and  you'll  freeze 
'thout  yer  fur;  go  back  and  wait.  I'll  find  her 
if  she's  between  here  and  Blake's!"  and  he  rode 
off,  hearing  Saunders'  curses  but  for  an  instant. 
The  latter  turned  against  the  flying  snow  sheets. 

"He's  a  good  un,  jus'  same,"  he  muttered. 
"Gosh,  it's  damn  cold!  I  believe  I  must  be 
gettin'  old  after  all."  He  went  back  to  the 
house  and  built  up  the  dead  fire. 

Meanwhile  Fred  struggled  on.  Little  by  lit 
tle  the  horse  recovered  its  strength  and  moved 
faster,  but  the  cold  began  to  tell  on  the  man's 
body,  damp  from  the  exertion  of  the  run  he  had 
had.  He  got  the  horse  into  a  gallop  and  swung 
his  arms  viciously. 

"That's  better,"  he  whispered,  as  the  flying 
scud  showed  brighter  in  the  east.  He  kept  on 
steadily  and  daylight  grew;  the  snow  drifted 
worse  and  worse.  The  little  horse  labored 
badly,  sank  into  a  trot,  and  from  that  to  a  walk, 
hanging  its  head  and  licking  the  snow. 
(164) 


"/'//  shoot!"  h,'  \cllcd 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


Then  far  ahead  the  policeman  saw  a  speck, 
and  urged  the  horse  to  a  trot  again. 

"That's  her,"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  few 
moments. 

The  distance  between  them  lessened.  There, 
astride  of  the  other  stolen  mount,  was  the  old 
woman,  her  head  and  body  wrapped  in  an  Indian 
rabbit-skin  blanket;  the  horse  was  walking 
steadily  along,  she  huddled  in  the  saddle.  She 
heard  nothing  because  of  the  noises  of  the  wind 
till  Fred  reached  her  side. 

"Halt!" 

She  stuck  her  face  out,  saw  him,  and,  before 
the  man  could  move,  grabbed  her  bridle,  jerked 
the  horse  off  the  trail  and  galloped  across  the 
snow  plains. 

He  drew  his  revolver. 

"I'll  shoot!"  he  yelled,  but  he  might  as  well 
have  thought  it  for  all  she  heard. 

"By  God,  I  will  shoot!"  he  swore,  and  took 
aim.  "Great  tickets,  can't  I  catch  her?  I  will!" 
and  away  he  went,  firing  twice  in  the  air  to  try 
to  intimidate  the  fleeing  figure,  but  without  suc 
cess.  His  horse  stumbled,  gathered  itself  and 
stumbled  again,  and  he  saw  that  she  would  get 
away  from  him. 

(165) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


"I'll  have  to  shoot  the  horse.  Poor  old  Bill; 
but  I'll  have  that  woman,  so  help  me  1" 

He  drew  up,  took  aim  and  fired. 

"Too  low  1"  as  a  spit  of  snow  rose  behind  the 
other  horse. 

Bang! 

"Too  far  to  the  left!" 

Bang! 

"Got  him !"  as  the  brute  staggered  to  and  fro. 

He  moved  on  slowly  and  came  up  to  the 
fugitive. 

The  ugly  face  peered  at  him  through  the 
blankets. 

"I've  got  you  now;  get  off  that  horse!" 

She  did  not  move;  he  dismounted,  grabbed 
the  blankets  and  yanked  her  off. 

Another  shot  and  the  wounded  beast  was 
dead.  He  patted  the  lifeless  head  as  it  lay  on 
the  snow. 

"Poor  old  Bill — good  horse !"  he  said,  husk 
ily;  "you  died  for  the  service."  He  turned 
savagely. 

"Now  you  walk,  d'ye  hear?  Walk!"  He 
waited.  No  move  from  the  shape  on  the  crust. 

"I'll  kill  yer  if  you  don't  get  up  !" 

"Ye  dassent,"  she  snarled  then,  speaking  for 
(166) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


the  first  time.    He  coaxed,  threatened,  promised 
—all  to  no  end. 

Then  he  picked  her  up,  slung  her  over  his  sad 
dle,  fastened  her  there,  stripped  the  dead  horse 
of  its  saddle  and  bridle  and  fastened  them  on 
his  own. 

"I'll  have  to  walk;  the  hoss  can't  carry  both," 
and  so  they  started,  he  leading,  bridle  rein  over 
his  arm. 

The  exercise  warmed  him,  as  he  was  chilled 
through  and  through  and  his  ears  were  frozen. 
He  rubbed  snow  on  them  as  he  went  on.  They 
proceeded  thus  for  some  time. 

"Funny  I  don't  hit  that  trail!"  He  led  the 
way  to  a  snow  rise.  As  far  as  he  could  see  in 
the  now  full  gray  light  were  moving  clouds  of 
snow;  no  flat  anywhere,  nothing  but  hills  or 
hollows  that  appeared  and  vanished  between  the 
squalls. 

"Here,  you !"  He  shook  the  mass  in  the 
saddle  roughly.  "Where  are  we?" 

"S'pose  I'm  goin'  ter  tell?"  the  cracked  voice 
answered  fiercely. 

"But  we'll  die  out  here— I'm  lost!" 

"S'pose  I  care?    They'll  kill  me  at  the  Post 
fer  killin'  Jim — what's  th'  dif'rence?" 
(  16?) 


A    DAY'S    WORK 


"You  admit  murdering  Jim?"  he  shouted. 

She  nodded,  as  he  could  tell  by  the  shaking 
of  the  blankets. 

"Here's  a  fine  outfit,"  he  said  to  himself.  "A 
clear,  good  case;  maybe  stripes  if  I  land  her  at 
the  Post,  and  certain  death  if  I  don't  find  the 
way!" 

He  thought  hard  and  an  idea  came. 

He  put  the  bridle  rein  over  the  horse's  head 
again,  patted  it,  and  stroked  its  ice-hung  muzzle. 
Then  he  stood  aside,  and  struck  its  back  sharply 
with  his  hand. 

The  horse  threw  up  its  nose,  hesitated,  then 
swerved  sharp  to  the  right  and  started  to  trot. 
Fred  ran  behind,  holding  it  lightly  by  the  tail. 
On  the  animal  went,  its  ears  pricked  forward, 
life  in  its  movements  where  it  had  been  sluggard 
and  slow.  Sometimes  walking,  then  trotting 
again,  but  always  moving  decisively,  the  horse 
kept  on. 

The  man  was  tired  and  the  snow  chafed  his 
ankles  and  legs  badly.  His  body  was  warm,  but 
his  hands,  feet  and  face  pained  severely.  They 
came  up  over  a  rise,  and  the  long-familiar  house 
stood  just  beyond. 

"Thank  God !"  he  muttered  incoherently,  and 
(168) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


kissed  the  poor  frozen  muzzle  again  and  again. 
The  animal  seemed  to  understand  and  tried  to 
nip  his  hand. 

Saunders  was  waiting. 

"Ye  got  her?"  was  the  first  question. 

"Sure!" 

"Where's  my  Bill?" 

When  Fred  told  the  story  the  old  sergeant's 
face  quivered  hard,  but,  "A  good  horse  was 
Bill,  an'  many  miles  I've  done  wi'  him!"  was 
all  he  said. 

He  helped  to'  undo  the  lashings,  and  the 
blanketed  figure  dropped  into  his  arms. 

"Here,  none  o'  that — stand  up  1"  He  let  go 
and  it  fell  inert. 

"Froze  a  mite,  I  guess." 

Saunders  pulled  aside  the  blankets.  The  face 
he  saw  leered  up  at  him  white  and  lifeless,  the 
eyes  open  and  dull  set.  With  a  curse  he  drew 
the  blankets  back.  A  short  knife  was  driven  in 
over  the  heart,  and  the  old,  worn  hand  was  still 
fast  to  the  handle. 

"D'ye  know  this?"  he  asked. 

"God!  no,"  Fred  answered.  "I  saw  nothing, 
'cept  when  the  horse  started  out  right  the  blank 
ets  moved  a  trifle." 

(169) 


A    DAY'S   WORK 


"That's  it,  then;  she  knowed  th'  way,  an' 
when  she  seed  you  was  a-comin'  right  she  did 
this  job ;  wouldn't  that  beat  all  ?  Wall,"  he  con 
tinued,  with  a  sigh,  "it's  all  in  the  day's  world" 


(  170) 


Jean  Baptiste's  Christmas   Present 


Jean  Baptiste's  Christmas   Present 

SMOKE  curled  lazily  from  the  top  of  the 
birch-bark  tepee  and  drifted  away  until 
it  was  lost  among  the  dark  pines.     The 
morning  air  was  biting  cold  and  the  crust  on  the 
snow  crackled  sharply  as  two  puppies  rolled  and 
snapped  at  each  other  on  it.    Then  one  obtained 
a  firm  hold  of  his  comrade's  ear;  the  result  was 
a  long  screech  from  the  persecuted  one.     The 
blanket  over  the  tepee  entrance  was  pushed  aside 
and  Jean  Baptiste  stepped  out. 

"Ah,  you  leet'  diables,  alway  mak'  nois' ! 
Marche-on,  allez!"  Baptiste  looked  up  at  the 
heavens;  they  were  threatening  and  dull;  great 
brows  of  cloud  writhed  and  twisted  along, 
though  there  was  no  wind  in  the  forest.  Then 
his  eyes  swept  the  long  white  horizon  that 
showed  here  and  there  through  the  trees. 

"Mor'  snow,  by  dam' !"  he  muttered  as  he 
gathered  up  some  wood  at  his  feet.  "Marie, 
mak'  dejeuner  queeck;  Ah  mus'  go  see  de  trap 
befor'  de  storm  he  come  !" 

(  173) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

"B'en  oui,"  a  woman's  voice  answered  from 
inside  the  wigwam. 

Baptiste  threw  the  wood  past  the  blanket 
door,  and  proceeded  to  feed  his  six  dogs  with 
pemmican.  They  fought  at  once  over  the  food. 

"An'  you,  Rico,  you  gourmand,  alway  steal 
somet'ing  f'om  oddaire.  By  gar,  Ah  geef  you 
keeckl" 

Jean  landed  a  rapid  thrust  with  his  toe,  and 
the  shaggy  brute  drew  away  growling. 

Then  silently  the  white  flakes  eddied  down; 
in  groups  and  one  by  one  they  gathered  on  the 
bark  of  the  little  home,  clustered  on  the  far- 
reaching  branches  of  the  firs  and  hemlocks,  and 
filtered  slowly  through  the  pine  needles. 

"Wee-se-ne!    [Breakfast!]" 

Baptiste  brushed  the  snow  from  his  arms  and 
shoulders,  stamped  his  moccasins  free  of  it,  and 
went  in. 

A  small  fire  burned  hotly  in  the  center ;  a  girl 
sat  beside  it,  gently  shaking  a  frying-pan;  a 
pannikin  of  tea,  some  pieces  of  bread  and  meat, 
and  a  bit  of  salt  pork  formed  the  breakfast  fare. 
Jean  spoke  seldom  during  the  meal,  and  Marie 
had  curled  herself  up  again  in  the  rabbit-skin 
blankets. 

(174) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 


"B'en  adieu,  cherie;  Ah  be  back  een  two  day 
a  half  eff  no  too  beeg  storm." 

He  bent  over  the  delicate  brown  face  and 
kissed  it. 

"Certainement  be  back,  Jean?"  the  girl  asked 
with  a  little  catch  in  her  voice. 

"Certainement."  And  Baptiste  picked  up  his 
snowshoes,  an  axe,  and  a  blanket  in  which  Marie 
had  put  provisions;  then  he  laughed  softly. 

"Wen  you  expec' " 

"Non,  Jean;  no  say  dat,"  she  answered  shyly. 

He  went  back  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Tell  to  moi,  your  Jean,  cherie,  so  dat  Ah  be 
sure  know,  hein?" 

She  hid  her  face  in  his  skin  capote. 

"Ah  be  ici  sans  doute."  He  laughed  gayly. 
"Au  revoir,  bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',  petite!" 

"Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',"  she  answered  steadily, 
though  her  big  brown  eyes  were  troubled  and 
moist.  He  was  gone. 

No  sound  save  a  faint  whisper  of  the  forest 
caused  by  the  wind  that  was  coming  slowly. 
Then  the  two  puppies,  lonely  now  that  the  dogs 
were  away,  nosed  their  way  past  the  blanket  and 
stretched  themselves  by  the  dying  fire.  Marie 
lay  there,  thinking,  wondering,  sometimes  sleep- 

(175) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

ing,  while  the  storm  grew  outside  till  the  forest 
creaked  and  shook  and  its  branches  waved 
wildly  to  and  fro.  Suddenly  a  powerful  blast 
brushed  the  blanket  at  the  entrance  aside,  and 
whirled  in,  carrying  myriads  of  snow  particles, 
and  waving  the  rabbit  furs  over  the  girl  in  tur 
bulent  ridges.  She  sat  up,  wakened  by  the  cold, 
clammy  bits  on  her  face. 

"Bon  Dieu,  vat  tempete  I"  she  whispered,  and 
stood  up.  Her  figure  was  not  as  lithe  and  slim 
as  it  had  been  some  months  before,  and  she 
seemed  weak.  Before  fastening  the  blanket 
again,  she  looked  out.  Everywhere  the  snow, 
tossed  and  tumbled  by  the  wind,  drove  in 
white  sheets  across  the  tiny  clearing;  she  could 
hear  the  angry  roaring  of  the  pines  and  dis 
tinguish  the  whistling  of  the  firs  and  the  fierce 
droning  of  the  hemlocks  as  gust  after  gust 
swept  madly  through  them. 

"Misere,  misere!"  she  murmured,  and  built 
up  the  fire.  The  puppies  whined  at  being  dis 
turbed  and  crept  close  to  her.  The  girl  then 
boiled  some  tea  and  ate  a  little  food, — but  very 
little, — and  lay  down  again  in  the  furs.  Slowly 
the  hours  dragged  by,  but  the  storm  yowled  on 
with  unabated  force;  gradually  the  gray  light 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

that  came  through  the  fire-hole  in  the  tepee-top 
faded.  From  time  to  time  Marie  threw  wood 
on  the  fire.  Then  it  was  dark.  No  light  in  the 
wigwam  but  that  of  the  bright-red  embers  that 
cast  their  shadows  on  the  circular  bark  wall; 
their  glow  was  vague  and  mysterious  because 
the  gale  sounds  overcame  the  faint  cracklings, 
and  the  fire-eyes  shone  ruddy  and  noiseless.  A 
tin  kettle  in  the  corner  diffused  a  green-white 
reflection  on  one  spot,  and  the  girl  watched  it 
unconsciously. 

Suddenly  the  puppies  jumped  up  and  barked 
—not  really  barked,  but  did  their  best  in  short 
yelps  and  diminutive  howls.  Marie  was  wide 
awake  instantly  and  listened.  No  unusual  sound 
could  she  hear,  but  the  dogs  scratched  and  dug 
valiantly  at  the  blanket  she  had  securely  fast 
ened.  The  girl  moved  to  rise,  when  a  heavy 
body  fell  against  the  entrance  and  rolled  almost 
to  her  feet,  tearing  the  door  with  it.  Marie 
leaped  to  her  feet  and  stared,  frightened  at 
first.  The  body  lay  there  motionless. 

"Vone  mans,  b'en  vrai !"  she  whispered,  hold 
ing  the  rabbit-skins  about  her.  She  went  over 
softly  and  listened;  no  sound  came  from  the 
blurred  heap  beside  the  embers.  Then  she 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

leaned  over  and  pulled  from  the  man's  face  the 
blanket  in  which  he  was  entangled. 

"Bon  Dieu!"  she  screamed,  and  looked 
again. 

The  face  she  saw  was  of  snowy  whiteness, 
except  for  a  small  round  hole  just  under  the 
black,  dank  hair,  from  which  a  red  stream 
trickled  heavily.  The  eyes  were  closed  and  the 
mouth  was  drawn  out  of  shape  with  pain.  To 
see  better,  she  hurriedly  threw  nearly  all  the 
stock  of  wood  Baptiste  had  left  for  her  on  the 
fire,  and  furiously  blew  at  the  embers  till  a 
strong  blaze  cast  a  lurid  yellow  glare  in  the 
interior.  She  bent  down  and  listened  at  the 
man's  chest,  then  started  up  in  alarm. 

"Jesu  Christ!  he  alive  an'  Ah  have  netting 
for  do  for  heem,"  she  cried.  The  silence  after 
her  words  was  greater  than  ever.  The  wind 
had  decreased  and  now  sobbed  fitfully;  between 
the  gusts  the  stillness  was  absolute. 

Then  from  afar  in  the  white  distance  came 
the  long,  mournful  howl  of  a  wolf.  The  sound 
startled  her,  and  her  senses  were  at  once  alert; 
she  chafed  the  man's  hands  and  face  with  snow, 
listening  now  and  again  at  his  heart.  Little  by 
little  its  beats  grew  stronger  and  more  regular; 
(178) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

at  last  his  eyes  opened  and  roved  blankly  over 
the  little  interior. 

"Ni-be,  nibe!   .  [Water!]"  he  whispered. 

Marie  poured  a  thin  stream  between  his 
parched  lips. 

"Miguetch!  [Thanks!]"  But  in  the  big, 
wandering  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  terror,  the 
fear  of  a  hunted  animal. 

The  girl  questioned  him  softly  in  the  Ojibway 
language,  but  he  did  not  understand;  then  she 
tried  French,  but  without  success;  in  despair,  she 
lapsed  into  the  broken  English  frequently  used 
by  the  Indians  in  conversing  with  men  of  differ 
ent  tribes  whose  language  they  do  not  know. 

"Who  you?" 

"Gwinguish,"  he  muttered  feebly.  "Cree 
f'om  Longue  Lac.  Hodsonbaie  mans  send  po 
lice  aftaire  win  [me]  for  why  Ah  have  no  skins 
for  paie  de  debt."  Here  he  coughed,  and  the 
exertion  started  again  the  red  flow  from  the  tiny 
round  hole  under  his  hair.  With  deft  fingers 
the  girl  wound  her  handkerchief  about  the 
wound  and  pressed  it  down  firmly  with  her  long, 
thin  hands.  The  flow  ceased. 

"Las'  night,"  the  weak  voice  began  again, 
"de  police  mak'  shootin'  at  win.  I  fallin'  down 

(  179) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

een  de  snow  and  mak'  hide  een  bush;  dey  go 
pas'  win,  an'  Ah  comme  creep,  creep,  t'rough 
de  fores'  teel  Ah  fin'  dees  place.  Baim-by  de 
police  fin'  de  track  my  snowshoe  an'  comme  dees 

place,  an' "  The  Indian's  voice  trailed  off 

in  a  groan,  and  he  rolled  over,  unconscious. 

"Bon  Dieu !"  Marie  whispered  to  herself. 
"Bon  Dieu  !  pauvre  diable !  Ef  Jean  vas  onlee 
here  !  Maintenant — vat  Ah  do?"  She  went  to 
the  entrance  and  listened;  the  storm  had  gone 
and  the  forest  loomed  massive  and  black  against 
the  dim,  cold  light  of  the  snow  underneath  and 
beyond.  No  sound — not  a  whisper — disturbed 
the  throbbing  stillness.  Uneven  and  jagged, 
the  tops  of  the  firs  and  hemlocks  pointed  straight 
upward  to  the  heavens,  where  the  northern 
lights  fluttered  and  streamed  in  long  pennants 
of  drifting,  shifting  vividness. 

"De  tempete  gone!  Jean  no  back  two  day! 
Vat  Ah  do?"  She  spoke  aloud  in  her  distress. 
"Ah  no  can  go  fin'  heem;  am  no  strong  'nough. 
An'  ef  de  police — Dieu  !"  She  almost  screamed 
then,  as  through  the  forest  she  heard  the  clink 
ing  of  bits  and  the  muffled  plod,  plod  of  horses' 
feet  in  the  heavy  snow.  Instantly  she  leaped 
back  into  the  wigwam,  her  weakness  and  her  ex- 
(  180) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

pected  child  forgotten,  and  in  her  terror  she 
shook  the  wounded  Indian  roughly. 

"Ah — ah — ah!"  he  groaned,  and  opened  his 
eyes. 

"De  police  dey  come!"  she  hissed.  The 
words  seared  his  mind  and  forced  his  brain  to 
action;  he  tried  to  stagger  up,  but  fell  helpless. 

"Be  quiet — say  notting!"  she  hissed  again, 
covered  his  face  with  her  rabbit  blankets,  rolled 
him  by  main  force  into  a  corner,  his  back  to  the 
fire,  and  leaped  again  to  the  entrance. 

"Hillo!  Hillo!  Bo'  jou'  I" 

The  mounted  police — six  of  them — had 
reached  the  little  clearing  and  stopped,  seeing 
the  tepee. 

"Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou'!"  she  answered  steadily, 
though  her  heart-beats  suffocated  her.  "What 
ees?" 

"We  air  looking  for  a  damned  scamp  named 
Gwinguish;  fired  at  him  yesterday,  saw  blood 
on  the  snow,  and  lost  him  when  this  rotten  storm 
came  up.  Haven't  seen  him,  have  you?" 

The  girl  clutched  at  her  throat,  as  though  to 
force  her  voice  to  steady  speech. 

"Non,"  she  answered;  "no  see  't  all." 

"Curse  the  luck!"  The  man  slid  from  his 
(181) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

saddle  as  he  spoke.  "Chasing  about  this  God 
forsaken  country,  and  then  to  miss  our  man! 
We " 

"Whose  wigwam  's  this?"  one  of  the  police 
asked  in  Ojibway. 

"Jean  Baptiste,"  Marie  answered  bravely. 

"Free  trapper?" 

Mto»[Yes]." 

"We'll  stop  here  and  feed  the  horses,  Ah-teg," 
the  first  man  ordered;  and  the  six  tethered  their 
horses  to  trees  and  drew  the  dark-blue  blankets 
carefully  over  them. 

"Got  fire?"  he  asked,  and  the  girl  nodded. 

The  police  stalked  into  the  tepee,  their  spurs 
tinkling  in  the  silence. 

Marie  shivered,  and  entered  after  them. 

"Who's  that?"  the  leader  asked  quickly  as 
the  fire  blazed  up,  pointing  to  the  figure  under 
the  rabbit-skins. 

"Baptiste."  Her  voice  quivered,  then  was 
steady  again.  "He  hurt  hees  foot  yes'day." 

"Too  bad." 

Soon  the  rattling  of  tea-pannikins  filled  the 
tepee,  while  the  police  joked  and  laughed,  some 
times  cursing  their  luck  and  the  weather,  and 
wondering  if  they  could  still  catch  Gwinguish. 
(182) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

"He's  making  for  Wabinoosh,  sure." 

"I  don't  think  so;  more  likely  to  try  for  Fort 
Hope,  and  hide  among  the  Indians  there." 

"Say," — the  one  who  spoke  Ojibway  stood 
up,  tall  and  swarthy  in  the  yellow  light, — "Ah 
goin'  tak'  look  round." 

"Go  ahead,  Michele;  go  ahead,  and  wel 
come."  The  sergeant  chuckled  as  the  man  went 
out.  "Always  looking  for  things  he  can't  find; 
but,  by  —  — !  he's  a  good  trailer,  boys!  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  cursed  snowstorm,  he'd 
have  found  our  man  sure  enough." 

Marie  said  nothing,  but  her  heart  was  full  of 
fear,  because  she  knew  that  but  little  snow  had 
fallen  since  Gwinguish  had  come,  and  that  Mi 
chele  was  one  of  the  best  trackers  in  the  whole 
mounted  police  force.  She  reasoned  that  the 
Indian  would  in  all  probability  find  the  waver 
ing,  wandering  tracks  made  that  night,  and  she 
shuddered  at  the  result,  because  a  short  shrift  is 
given  thieves  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  and 
she  was  friendly  to  the  poor  devil  who  sought  to 
evade  the  company's  crushing  maw,  because  her 
husband  was  a  free  trader  and  trapper. 

As  the  police  ate  and  drank,  the  fear  at  her 
heart  became  unbearable.  Strangely  weak  and 
(  183) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

dizzy  she  felt;  nevertheless  she  stood  up,  and 
with  wavering  steps  sought  the  cold  air  outside. 
Daylight  was  just  coming  over  the  eastern  hori 
zon.  Leaning  against  the  bark  walls,  she  caught 
her  breath  quickly  at  seeing  the  tracker,  Michele, 
hunting  here  and  there  like  a  hound,  his  dark 
figure  dimly  discernible  in  the  faint  light.  As 
she  stood  there,  a  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder, 
its  fingers  gripping  her  flesh. 

"Jean,"  she  sobbed,  as  the  gaunt  face  peered 
into  hers,  "Gwinguish,  honted,  shot  by  police, 
een  dere.  Ah  tell  dat  heem  you.  Pauvre  diable, 
sauf  heem  for  me!"  And  she  fainted. 

Jean  Baptiste  carefully  laid  Marie  on  the 
snow.  "Cherie  !"  he  muttered;  "alway  do  some- 
t'ing  good  !  Ah  sauf  Gwinguish."  He  straight 
ened  up  and  listened. 

Within  the  tepee  the  policemen  laughed  and 
chatted;  without  all  was  stillness,  and  his  trained 
ears  caught  the  light  scrunch,  scrunch  of  the 
tracker's  feet  as  the  latter  sought  here  and  there. 

Baptiste  stiffened  on  his  snowshoes. 

"By  gar,  dose  confoun'  police!  Ah  goin' 
fooldem!" 

He  moved  noiselessly  to  the  tepee  entrance, 
his  snowshoes  clicking  but  very  softly.  Then 
(184) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

dashing  the  blanket  aside — "You  all  too  beeg 
dam'  fool  for  to  catch  moi !"  he  called  loudly, 
and  darted  away  among  the  gray  and  black 
trunks. 

"The  devil!"  The  sergeant  jumped  to  his 
feet.  "Gwinguish,  by  all  that's  holy!"  He 
sprang  to  the  entrance.  "Michele!  Blast  you, 
you  red  devil,  you're  not  worth  your  salt !  Here's 
our  man  just  here."  The  six  tumbled  helter- 
skelter  into  the  clearing,  rushed  to  their  horses, 
rolled  the  blankets  in  a  heap  on  the  saddle-bows, 
and  galloped  away  in  the  gloom. 

Baptiste,  the  storm  having  covered  his  track, 
had  decided  to  return  to  his  camp  for  two  rea 
sons:  the  expectation  of  a  "papoose"  and  the 
fact  that  fur  was  not  plenty  at  the  time  of  a 
heavy  fall  of  snow. 

When  he  approached  his  tepee  he  had  heard 
the  voices  of  the  mounted  police,  and,  free  trap 
per  though  he  was,  had  thought  it  best  not  to 
approach  too  openly.  He  left  his  dogs  and 
sledge  in  the  timber,  crept  carefully,  met  Marie, 
heard  her  warning  and  appeal,  and  was  first 
with  the  task,  a  difficult  one  enough,  of  leading 
the  police  a  vain  chase. 

The  bushes  had  scarce  closed  behind  his  figure 
(185) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

when  they  parted  again  as  Michele  slunk  rapidly 
after  the  flying  figure. 

"Allez!"  The  team  leaped  to  their  work. 
Jean  was  a  light  man,  and  the  sledge  whirred 
fast  over  the  snow. 

"Matche — Manito!"  Michele  cursed  as  he 
floundered  after;  then,  raising  his  head,  he 
whooped,  "Ho-e-e-e-a!" 

Far  off  to  the  right  the  police  answered,  and 
he  waited  for  them.  Gray,  pink,  purple,  the 
night  clouds  drifted  away,  hued  by  the  coming 
sun,  whose  rays  pierced  the  somberness  of  the 
forest  and  tinged  the  snow-laden  branches  white, 
gold,  and  silver. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  horses'  feet  sounded; 
then: 

"Damnation !  Michele,  where  in  thunder  'd 
he  go?" 

"Dees  way,"  and  he  pointed  out  the  sledge 
trail. 

"After  him — after  him,  men!"  And  away 
they  went,  the  horses  lurching  heavily,  the  men 
growling  and  swearing. 

Back  at  the  tepee,  Marie  opened  her  eyes  and 
struggled  to  her  feet.  Everything  was  silent; 
the  sun,  two  hours  up,  gilded  the  horizon  in  a 
(186) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

dazzling  glare.  "Jean,  Jean,"  she  murmured 
vaguely,  then  she  remembered.  Her  weak  foot 
steps  roused  the  figure  in  the  blankets  in  the 
tepee,  and  Gwinguish  sat  up. 

"Who  you  ?"  he  began,  blankly  staring  before 
him. 

With  feverish  haste  the  girl  knelt  at  his 
side. 

"Jean,  he  follow'  by  police.  Dey  t'ink  heem 
you;  Ah  say  so!  You  go  'way  queeck!" 

"Ai-hai,"  he  moaned,  and  tried  to  stand  up. 
A  lurch,  a  stagger,  and  he  fell,  while  Marie 
stood  by,  weak  and  dizzy. 

"Stan'  up — stan'  up  an'  go!"  she  begged. 

Again  and  again  the  wounded  man  tried,  but 
always  he  tumbled  at  her  feet. 

Then  the  tears  forced  their  way  to  the  girl's 
eyes;  she  understood  at  last  that  she  was  help 
less,  while  the  police  were  on  her  husband's 
trail.  She  sat  down  wearily  by  the  faint  embers 
of  the  fire,  and  waited. 

Higher  and  higher  the  winter  sun  climbed  in 
the  heavens.  Drip,  drip,  drip !  the  snow  melt 
ing,  in  its  heat,  dropped  to  the  crust  beneath. 
Silence  in  the  timber — deep  silence.  The  pup 
pies  played  outside,  their  sharp  yelping  echoing 
(187) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

among  the  stalwart  trunks  and  dark-green 
recesses. 

"Hurrah!"     And  again,  "H-u-r-r-a-h  !" 

With  many  whoopings  and  yells  the  mounted 
police  came  to  the  clearing  again.  Lashed  se 
curely  behind  a  trooper  was  Jean  Baptiste.  They 
had  him  cornered  in  a  blind  gorge  behind  the 
mountains  and  captured  him. 

Stillness  reigned  in  the  wigwam  as  they  ap 
proached.  McPherson  slipped  from  his  horse 
and  looked  in. 

"Whisht,  b'ys;  there's  a  chyild  amang  'em 
nou !" 

The  other  five  dismounted  and  slid  Baptiste 
from  the  horse. 

"Strange,  lads,  that  he  ain't  wounded !  Sure 
we  saw  blood  'way  out  t'  other  side  o'  Mackenzie 
Mountain !"  They  searched  the  prisoner  for  a 
wound,  but  not  even  a  scratch  rewarded  their 
efforts,  Jean  meanwhile  standing  mute  and  firm 
before  them. 

"Well,  we  got  him,  anyhow,"  one  policeman 
said  cheerfully,  "woun'  or  nae  woun';  but  'tis 
vera,  vera  cur'ous,  na'theless,"  he  finished  in 
a  whisper. 

As  the  police  talked  and  built  a  fire,  Gwin- 
(188) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

guish,  inside  the  tepee,  heard,  understood,  and 
staggered  to  his  feet.  His  head  troubled  him 
frightfully,  but  in  the  corner  his  bleared  eyes 
saw  the  girl,  and,  tottering  body  and  soul  as  he 
was,  he  understood  what  she  had  done  for  him. 
He  fell  to  his  knees,  then  rolled  over,  picked 
himself  up  again,  dragged  his  body  the  length  of 
the  tepee,  and  crawled  out. 

"What's  this?  An',  i'  faith,  ft  is  Baptise!" 
the  sergeant  said;  then,  seeing  the  blood-soaked 
neckerchief  over  the  forehead — "but  the  girrl 
said  he'd  hurted  his  foot." 

Gwinguish,  by  an  awful  effort,  got  to  his 
knees.  Jean  stood  silent  and  grave,  looking  at 
him. 

"No  Baptiste  me.  Me  Gwinguish  you  shoot 
yes'day;  de  girl,  hees  eqwe  [woman],  she  tell 
you  me  heem;  he  try  for  let  me  get  'way.  Ah 
'm  m' guetch  [thanks]  to  heem;  tak'  me — no 
heem!"  The  body  of  the  senseless  man  sagged 
between  Baptiste  and  the  sergeant. 

"I'll  be  clean  damned!"  the  latter  muttered. 

Unnoticed,  Saunders,  the  youngest  of  the 
force,  thumbed  his  report-book.  "Lads,  it's 
Christmas  Day." 

The  sergeant  looked  up  quickly.  "Christ- 
(189) 


JEAN'S    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

mas,  did  ye  say?  I  would  nae  hae 
thought  it." 

Every  man  was  silent.  From  within  the  tepee 
came  the  faint  wailings  of  a  new-born  child. 
Jean  Baptiste  must  have  heard,  but  he  gave  no 
sign.  The  wounded  man  tossed  and  muttered 
incoherently. 

"Loose  him,  men!" 

Jean  was  free. 

"I'm  a  lang,  lang  way  from  th'  Hielands,  lad  ! 
but  God  bless  ye — an'  a  merry  Christmas!"  the 
sergeant  said  hoarsely.  "Mount,  men  !  Ride  I" 

Plud-a-plud,  plud-a-plud,  plud-a-plud!  The 
horses'  feet,  striking  the  soft  snow,  sounded 
fainter  and  fainter  and  fainter;  then  they  were 
gone. 

"Dieu  merci !"  and  Jean  stepped  over  the  un 
conscious  Indian  and  disappeared  in  the  tepee, 
while  the  mid-winter  sun  shone  its  short  hours 
over  the  great  wilderness. 


(  190) 


The   Black   Thing  of  Hatchet 
Lake 


The   Black   Thing  of  Hatchet 
Lake 

A  French-Canadian  Legend 


the  wind!"  John  Arnold  mut- 
tered  angrily,  as  he  looked  over  the 
ruffled  waters  of  Hatchet  Lake. 

He  stood  on  a  clay  bank  that  overhung  the 
water;  at  his  feet  it  was  mirror-like,  but  beyond 
ripples  on  ripples  hurried  away,  growing  in  size 
till  on  the  other  shore  the  blue  distance  was 
spotted  with  the  white  crests  of  waves  that 
gleamed  in  the  vague  sunlight. 

"Curse  the  wind!"  he  repeated;  "we'll  never 
get  them  damned  sticks  acrost!" 

As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  turned  to  the  boom  of 
logs  that  was  kedged  under  the  protection  of  a 
long  point.  Thousands  of  them  were  there, 
lying  brown  and  half-submerged  in  the  water. 

"Breakfus',  Jack!"  shouted  one  of  the  men 
of  a  group  that  moved  about  a  brightly  blazing 
fire  on  the  beach  a  few  yards  away. 

(  193  ) 


Arnold  went  back  slowly,  his  face  wrinkled  in 
an  ugly  frown. 

"More  blow,  Jack,  eh?"  said  a  big  lumber 
man  to  his  boss. 

Arnold  growled  something,  and  began  help 
ing  himself  to  "salt  horse"  and  potatoes. 

"Tarnation,  thar  goes  that  dory!"  one  of  the 
crew  shouted,  leaping  to  his  feet. 

The  dory  in  question  had  worked  off  the 
beach  with  the  wind  and  drifted  away  fast;  the 
man  waded  after  it  to  his  armpits,  but  he  was 
too  late.  "Thar's  a  skunk  o'  a  tramp  arter  her 
now,"  he  grumbled,  as  he  dripped  ashore. 

Arnold  rose  deliberately,  took  off  his  heavy 
jacket  and  kicked  the  awkward  "corks"  from  his 
feet. 

"Don't be  er  fool,  Jack;  th'  water's  ice-cold!" 
the  man  advised,  as  the  foreman  walked  to  the 
edge. 

"I'll  git  that  thar  dory  or  breakfust  in  hell !" 
he  called,  and  plunged  in. 

He  swam  strongly,  and  was  gaining  on  the 
boat,  when  he  suddenly  threw  up  his  arms  and 
sank  without  a  cry. 

The  men  gasped  and  looked  at  each  other. 
Then  several  threw  off  their  reefers  and  swam 
(  194) 


BLACK  THING  OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

out,  braving  the  freezing  chill,  but  found  noth 
ing;  and  it  was  a  solemn  crowd  that  finished 
their  meal  on  the  beach  after  that. 

"He'll  breakfus'  whar  he  said  he  w'ld,  sure 
'nought !"  Dick  Donald  announced  gravely. 

The  others  nodded  in  silence. 

****** 

"'Ow  mooch  you  geef  for  me  to  tak'  dat  lettre 
dam'  queeck  to  you'  fren'?"  Batiste  Clement 
asked  slowly,  as  he  rubbed  tobacco  between  the 
palms  of  his  big  hairy  hands,  preparatory  to 
filling  his  pipe. 

The  lumbermen's  little  store  was  hot  and 
close;  river  drivers,  teamsters,  choppers,  men  of 
rough  life  and  endurance,  squatted  about,  smok 
ing.  The  one  oil  lamp  that  hung  low  from  the 
dingy  ceiling  gave  out  a  pallid  light,  scarce 
strong  enough  to  create  shadows. 

"I'll  give  any  man  twenty-five  dollars  to  take 
this  message  to  Nixon,  camped  on  Beaver 
Pond,"  a  young  man,  evidently  a  sportsman, 
answered  quickly. 

The  crowd  shuffled  and  waited  for  Clement's 
answer. 

The  latter,  a  brawny  French-Canadian, 
looked  down  on  the  man  from  civilization,  and 

(195) 


BLACK  THING  OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

grinned.  "Eet  fef  ten  mile  to  Lac  au  Portage, 
ten  mile  down  de  riviere,  t'ree  mile  to  portager 
roun'  de  bad  water,  twent'  mile  h'across  Hatch't 
Lac,  den  four  mile  by  de  trail;  'ow  far  all  dat, 
Tonee?"  he  asked  of  the  storekeeper. 

The  latter  added  up  on  his  fingers.  "Fifty- 
two  miles,  Bat!" 

"Ah  go,"  the  big  fellow  decided,  "an'  Ah  go 
by  dam'  ver  queeck !  Be  bac'  en  two  day  a  half, 
mabbe  t'ree  day  ef  beeg  win'." 

"Look  out  not  to  strike  Hatchet  Lake  at 
night,  Bat!"  one  of  the  men  laughed;  "Jack 
Arnold's  hangin'  'bout  thar  yit !" 

The  others  winked. 

"Bah,  dat  Jacko!  Ah  heer  all  taim'  Jacko; 
v'at  he  do,  hein  ?"  Batiste  asked  good-naturedly. 

"He's  liable  ter  do  most  anythin'  to  ye,"  the 
same  man  answered;  then  continued  impres 
sively,  "They  sent  a  crew  up  thar  last  spring  ter 
look  fur  him,  an'  they  sot  off  dinamite  an'  fired 
guns  an'  grappled,  but  they  didn't  find  nawthin' ; 
he's  thar,  sartin',  an'  he  never  did  hev  a  great 
likin'  fur  ye,  since  th'  time  ye  licked  him  so  bad 
at  th'  mill." 

"Sacre-e-e!  Ah  lak'  see  heem,  he  no  beeg 
mans  v'en  he  h'alive,  no  can  be  mor'  beeg  dead !" 
(196) 


BLACK   THING  OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

Batiste  tucked  the  letter  he  was  to  deliver 
under  his  shirt,  and  carefully  stowed  the  money 
in  a  little  bag  that  hung  on  his  massive  chest. 

"Au  r'voir!"  he  shouted,  and  left  the  store. 

His  employer  followed  him  to  the  river. 
"Hurry  up,  Clement;  the  man's  wife  is  sick." 

"Dat  dam'  bad;  Ah  go  plent'  queeck!" 

He  threw  his  food-bag  and  a  blanket  in  the 
light  canoe,  pushed  off,  stepped  in,  and  disap 
peared  instantly  in  the  night  gloom. 

On  down  the  river  he  paddled  with  long,  pow 
erful  strokes,  humming  to  himself  sometimes, 
sometimes  whistling.  The  dark  banks  and  som 
ber  shadows  passed  swiftly,  and  the  sluggish 
current  gurgled  mysteriously  from  beneath  half- 
sunken  logs  and  rotting  brush. 

The  night  was  sullen;  the  skies  overhung  with 
dense  masses  of  moving  cloud.  At  intervals  a 
few  stars  shone  from  the  upper  heavens,  but 
they  were  soon  hidden.  A  light  breeze  sported 
on  the  river,  baffling  and  weak;  now  it  blew 
against  him,  then  helped  him  on.  Scr-a-a-c! 
Scr-a-a-c!  croaked  a  heron  as  it  flapped  away 
from  a  marsh  with  audible  swishing  of  its 
wings. 

Splash !    Ker-pluck !    A  musk-rat,  startled  by 

(  197  ) 


BLACK  THING  OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

the  silently  moving  canoe,  dived  loudly,  and 
came  up  ahead  of  it,  only  to  dive  again,  more 
frightened  than  before. 

"By  gar,  musquash  ver'  plent',"  Batiste  said 
to  himself;  "Ah  mak'  de  trap  baim'-by." 

In  three  hours  he  came  out  of  the  river  on  to 
Portage  Lake;  the  wind  was  stronger  here,  but 
it  was  favorable,  and  he  paddled  on  fast.  The 
shore  behind  him  faded  from  a  dark  outline  to 
nothingness,  and  he  was  alone  on  the  whispering 
lake.  Soon  little  waves  moved  the  canoe  up  and 
down,  and  from  the  bow  came  the  purlings  of 
disturbed  waters.  Off  to  the  right  a  loon  called 
eerily,  then  liquid  stillness;  the  next  time  it 
screamed  with  a  quavering  falter  at  the  end. 

"Beeg  win'  to-mor' !"  and  Clement  hastened 
on. 

As  mile  after  mile  passed  under  him  the  wind 
increased,  lifting  the  black  waters  into  long  un 
dulating  waves;  then  these  had  crests  that  broke 
around  the  canoe  with  wet  snarls  and  hissings. 
He  could  not  see  them,  but  he  felt  their  power  as 
he  bobbed  on,  often  dampened  by  the  spray  of  a 
high  sea  as  it  curled  itself  spitefully  against  the 
stern  of  the  canoe. 

"H'eet  mak'  day!"  he  muttered,  when  a  faint 
(198) 


BLACK   THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

light  crept  out  of  the  eastern  horizon.  It  grew 
stronger  and  stronger;  at  first  green-gray,  then 
yellow  and  pink;  showing  up  the  angry  waters 
and  far  ahead  the  outline  of  a  distant  shore. 

Then  the  sun  rose  lazily  in  the  island- 
clouded  sky.  It  gilded  the  swaying  canoe, 
painted  the  man  in  soft  colors,  and  brought  out 
the  forests  in  dark  green  hues.  To  the  right 
and  left  mountains  appeared,  first  indistinct, 
then  solid  against  the  fleeing  night-clouds,  at 
last  clear  and  distance-blued. 

Behind  Batiste  the  shining  wave-peaks  curled 
along,  breaking  into  foam  that  vanished  for  an 
instant  to  grow  again  in  fresh  and  sparkling 
white.  Before  him  were  moving,  heaving 
waters,  but  their  crests  were  invisible.  The 
warmth  fused  him  to  a  sense  of  geniality,  and  he 
sang  as  the  strong  blow  helped  him  on. 

"Ah'm  hongree!"  he  decided,  and  went 
ashore. 

He  landed  on  a  tiny  beach  of  yellow  sand. 
There  were  many  tracks  of  deer  on  it,  and  a  few 
loup-cervier  trails.  When  he  had  gathered  some 
wood  and  built  a  small  hot  fire,  he  set  his  panni 
kin  on  it  and  explored.  At  the  farthest  end  of 
the  beach  were  the  heavy  footprints  of  a  bear. 
(  199) 


BLACK  THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

"Par  Dieu,  Ah  get  dat  ours  som'taim',"  he 
shouted  gayly,  as  he  followed  it  into  the  woods. 
The  trail  led  through  an  alder  swamp,  and  the 
five-claw  track  showed  plain  and  aggressive  in 
the  damp  earth. 

"Bon!  Dat  bear  he  leef  h'at  de  cascades," 
he  thought,  and  turned  back  to  the  shore.  His 
tea  was  ready,  and  he  sipped  the  bitter  stuff, 
munching  cold  moose-meat  the  while,  with  great 
comfort. 

"De  voman's  seeck,  he  tol'  to  me;  Ah  go!" 
he  said  aloud,  as  he  finished,  packed  the  food- 
bag,  and  shoved  off.  In  a  short  time  he  reached 
the  outlet;  the  water  was  fast,  and  in  places 
white  with  rapids.  Skillfully  he  guided  the  canoe 
past  jutting  reefs,  between  cold  glancing  water 
shoulders,  and  over  rolling  foam-covered  bars, 
till  he  came  to  the  dead  water  below.  Then  he 
went  ashore  again,  emptied  the  canoe  of  the 
river  that  had  lapped  in,  pushed  off  and  kept  on. 

"Where  dat  portage?"  he  whispered  to  him 
self,  as  the  distant  roar  of  a  fall  sounded  thick 
and  muffled.  He  searched  the  left  bank  care 
fully  as  it  slid  past. 

"Ha,   dere   ees!"  as  a  bush-grown  opening 
showed.     He  steered  to  it  with  swift  strokes, 
(  200  ) 


BLACK  THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

pulled  his  little  craft  out,  lashed  the  bag,  the 
blanket  and  the  paddle  to  its  thwarts,  and  hove 
it  on  his  broad  back.  With  loose  knees  and 
gracefully  swaying  shoulders  he  lugged  over  the 
three-mile  carry,  and  rested  only  when  Hatchet 
Lake  stretched  away  before  him,  twenty  miles 
to  the  far  shore. 

He  sat  down  on  the  canoe  and  got  out  his 
pipe,  his  eyes  wandering  over  the  gently  moving 
waters.  They  looked  cold  in  the  autumn  sun 
light,  and  troubled  by  the  October  wind  that 
blew  invigoratingly  from  the  northwest.  On 
both  sides  of  him  the  forests  fell  away  in  dwind 
ling  lines  of  multi-colored  hues ;  the  solemn  green 
of  the  fir  and  pine,  the  bright  yellows  of  the 
birch,  and  up  on  the  hillsides  the  red  and  purple 
of  the  maple  and  oak;  two  lines  of  shades  and 
shadows  as  big  white  wind-clouds  drifted  over 
the  face  of  the  sun.  Gray  blotches  hurried  across 
the  lake,  distinct  and  silent. 

"By  dam',  dat  win'  he  blow  h'agan  me;  Ah 
try  go  jus'  sam' !"  Batiste  said  aloud,  and  pushed 
out.  He  threw  his  jacket  in  the  bottom  of  the 
canoe,  tossed  his  cap  after  it,  and  bent  to  the 
paddle.  The  wind  increased  steadily,  till  at 
last,  with  all  his  great  strength,  he  could  forge 
(  201  ) 


BLACK  THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

ahead  no  farther  than  the  gale  forced  him  back 
between  each  stroke. 

"Sacre  diable!"  he  grumbled,  and  swung 
back.  The  wind  drove  him  rapidly  ashore 
again ;  he  leaped  out  and  carried  the  canoe  on  the 
bank  beyond  the  water,  that  tumbled  with  liquid 
rumblings  and  cold  splashes  on  the  big  shale. 

"Dat  eternellement  dam'  win' !"  he  ejacu 
lated,  as  he  threw  himself  on  the  fresh-smelling 
pine  needles  and  rustling  dead  leaves.  He  lay 
there,  his  long  arms  clasped  behind  his  head, 
watching  the  furious  lake,  and  waiting  for  it  to 
become  tranquil  again  in  the  evening. 

Branches  crackled  and  snapped  sharply  in  the 
woods;  withered  leaves  dropped  from  baring 
forest  limbs,  and  scurried  away,  eddying  and 
pirouetting  among  the  stalwart  trunks.  A  large 
fish-hawk,  its  wings  set,  sailed  into  his  view,  and 
he  watched  its  long  curvings  idly.  Round  and 
round,  now  high  in  the  air,  then  low,  it  moved 
by  unseen  power.  Its  distant,  hoarse  call  came 
faintly  to  him,  and  he  smiled. 

"Hongree,  hein?"  and  he  laughed  as  the  bird 
plunged,  a  bit  of  brown  and  white  against  the 
blue,  into  the  lake,  and  flapped  its  way  up  again 
with  empty  talons. 

(  202  ) 


BLACK  THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

"De  trouts,  dey  no  sooch  beeg  fool!"  he 
called  to  the  hawk.  Once,  twice,  thrice  it  dived; 
at  last  a  glittering  fish  squirmed  in  the  sharp 
claws,  and  with  a  parting  screech  the  bird 
wheeled  and  vanished  over  the  tree-tops. 

Clement  smoked  and  dozed  all  the  morning; 
then  as  the  sun  stared  in  his  face  on  its  down 
ward  course  he  built  a  fire  and  ate. 

The  sun  fell  slowly,  turning  from  dazzling 
white  to  orange,  from  orange  to  pink-red,  then 
crimson;  bloody  it  seemed  as  it  neared  the  tinted 
waters.  Streaks  of  feathery  masses  moved  more 
slowly  from  west  to  east  as  the  wind  died  away 
and  the  waves  sank,  weak  and  crestless.  Long 
ropes  of  cloud  crept  over  the  forest  line  beyond, 
and  warped  themselves  in  fantastic  knots  and 
twistings  across  the  evening  skies. 

"Go  now!"  Batiste  decided,  put  his  canoe  in 
the  lake  and  started  out. 

"Dees  good,  dam'  fine,  allez  fas'!"  he  mut 
tered,  and  worked  hard.  The  shores  disap 
peared  behind  as  the  miles  were  passed  and  night 
settled  down.  The  wind  had  gone  entirely,  and 
when  the  stars  scintillated  into  view  the  waters 
were  ink-hued  and  calm,  a  monster  mirror  for 
the  myriads  of  twinkling  points  above. 
(  203  ) 


BLACK   THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

Batiste  coughed  tentatively  and  cleared  his 
throat, — 

For  dere  en  Canada  dere  ees  one  girrl  for  me, 
Shee  ees  de  finest  vomans  dat  evaire  you  deed   see, 
Wit  haire  lak'  goP,  an'  eye  so-o-o  blu-e-e, 
Shee  vait  forr  me,  shee  good  an'  tru-e-e! 

His  strong,  clear  voice  carried  far  over  the 
still  surface,  faintly  echoing  to  him  from  the 
nearest  shore, — 

Som'  day  to  dees  girrl  lak'  dees  to  her  Ah  say, 
You  marrie  me,  dat  so,  an'  'appy  den  we  stay 
H'at  Lac  des  Loups  togedder,  you  an'  me-e-e; 
Dees  leetle  girrl,  her  nam'  lak'  dees  Marie! 

"Rie — rie!"  the  echoes  flung  back  at  him. 

"Dat's  v'at  Ah  say — MARIE!"  he  shouted 
merrily. 

"Rie — rie — ie!"  was  the  answer  from  over 
the  flat  water. 

The  stars  gave  a  mystic  light  on  the  lake: 
that  light  in  which  objects  are  seen  but  not 
recognized;  when  forms  are  but  indistinct 
shapes,  and  shapes  but  vague  outlines. 

Clu-u-uck  --  thump !  Clu-u-uck  —  thump  ! 
(  204  ) 


BLACK   THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

sounded  his  paddle  regularly,  while  little  bubbles 
and  tiny  rolls  marked  his  water  trail. 

"Bon  Dieu,  v'at  dat?"  he  whispered  suddenly, 
holding  the  ash  blade  still. 

To  his  right,  close  by,  loomed  a  long  point  of 
land,  its  trees  silhouetted  unevenly  against  the 
night  heavens.  At  the  edge  of  the  water  a 
Black  Thing  oscillated  evenly  from  side  to  side, 
now  upright,  then  bending  almost  to  the  sur 
face. 

"Onlee  tree!"  he  laughed,  but  was  sober 
instantly.  "By  dam',  no  win' !"  he  breathed, 
staring  motionless. 

The  silence  was  superb;  his  canoe  had  lost  its 
headway,  and  lay  quiet.  Batiste  was  close  to 
the  point  now,  and  the  giant  forest  on  it  was  as 
carved  of  stone.  Not  the  faintest  whisper  dis 
turbed  the  gripping  stillness.  Only  the  Thing 
moved,  and  it  swung  to  and  fro  in  dizzying 
sweeps.  Clement  looked  in  curiosity  at  first, 
then  he  remembered. 

"Jacko!"  he  mumbled  softly,  and  watched 
spellbound,  helpless.  IT  was  blacker  than  the 
night;  sharp  in  its  density,  standing  out  clear 
and  menacing  from  the  heavily  somber  back 
ground  of  underbrush  and  pine. 
(  205  ) 


BLACK  THING  OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

"Bon  Dieu!  Jacko!"  he  spoke  dully,  and 
fumbled  under  his  shirt;  when  he  drew  out  his 
hand  it  held  a  little  cross,  that  gleamed  metallic 
in  the  star-darkness;  he  shook  it  toward  the 
point. 

"By  gar,  you  see  dat?"  he  called,  and  in 
stantly  the  Black  Thing  disappeared.  He  stared 
in  fascination. 

"Merci,  bon  Dieu!"  he  said  weakly,  and  in 
the  relaxation  of  the  fear  his  hand  opened. 

Plu-uck !  The  cross  was  gone  under  the  lake. 
He  watched  the  little  ripples  stupidly,  then 
looked  up,  and  the  Thing  met  his  eyes,  oscilla 
ting  as  before. 

For  an  instant  he  gazed,  then  screamed  in  his 
terror,  and  paddled  away  with  all  his  might. 
The  canoe  trembled  under  the  furious  strokes, 
and  parted  the  waters  with  foam  at  the  bow  and 
surging  eddies  at  the  stern. 

Batiste  looked  over  his  shoulder  in  a  few 
moments,  and  saw  the  Thing  following  on 
scarce  three  canoe-lengths  behind.  He  threw 
himself  on  his  knees,  and  paddled  with  the  wild 
energy  and  strength  of  despair,  whither  he  knew 
not  nor  cared.  But  always  when  he  looked  back 
IT  glided  after  him,  tall,  silent,  and  swaying. 
(206) 


BLACK  THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

Absolute  terror  controlled  him  then;  he 
worked  on  savagely,  streams  of  sweat  rolling 
from  his  face,  his  body  a  mass  of  tired  muscles; 
but  hard  as  he  worked  and  agonizingly  as  he 
strove,  the  Thing  was  ever  three  canoe-lengths 
astern. 

Then  his  strokes  grew  weaker  and  weaker, 
his  breath  came  in  harsh  gasps  and  hoarse  whist 
lings.  The  lake  seemed  to  whirl  round;  the 
heavens  and  waters  mingling  and  falling  about 
him.  His  fear-cringed  eyes  flashed  defiantly 
for  an  instant  as  he  felt  himself  exhausted. 

With  a  yelping  shout  he  flung  his  paddle  from 
him;  it  fell,  splashing  loudly. 

"Dam'  you,  Jacko!  Ah  go  wit'  you  to  de 
diable,"  he  grunted,  as  the  canoe  slackened  speed 
gradually. 


Just  as  the  next  sun  warmed  the  morning  air, 
and  kingfishers  shrilled  harshly  on  the  shore,  a 
canoe  came  up  Hatchet  Lake,  manned  by  two 
Canadian  trappers  on  their  way  to  the  fur  coun 
try  beyond. 

"Dat  one  canot,  hein?"  the  man  in  the  bow 
asked  of  the  other;  they  held  their  paddles  and 
(  207  ) 


BLACK  THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 

gazed  at  something  that  floated  brown  and  mo 
tionless  to  their  right  near  the  long  sharp  point. 

uAi-hai,"  the  other  answered  in  a  moment; 
"she  get  'way  f'om  som'  mans;  vee  catch!" 
And  they  went  over  to  it. 

"Grace  Dieu !"  the  man  in  the  bow  whispered 
as  he  came  alongside.  The  other  looked  and 
breathed  sharply;  they  both  took  off  their  caps. 

Stretched  out  on  the  bottom  of  the  drifting 
canoe  was  Batiste  Clement,  his  limbs  straight 
and  stiff,  his  face  drawn  into  a  half-snarl,  his 
eyes  open  and  glaring,  and  little  flecks  of  dried 
foam  on  his  lips. 

"Tak'  heem  h'ashor',"  Josephe  Hebert  said 
solemnly;  and  while  his  companion  held  on  to 
the  death  canoe,  he  paddled  slowly  ahead. 

"Jesu  Christ !"  he  screamed  then,  and  pointed 
at  the  water.  The  other  looked  and  turned 
gray.  Submerged  all  but  the  face,  that  shone 
green-white  in  the  sun's  rays,  was  a  body;  it 
wobbled  soggily  on  the  little  waves  created  by 
Josephe's  paddle. 

"Sainte  Vierge,  dat  Jean  Arnauld  !  He  drown 
few  mont'  gon'  h'on  dees  pointe !"  he  whispered. 
The  two  sat  staring. 

"Par  Dieu,  dees  place  no  good  stay!"  the 
(208) 


BLACK   THING   OF   HATCHET   LAKE 


man  holding  on  to  the  canoe  muttered,  and  gave 
it  a  shove  backward.  It  went  a  short  distance 
and  stopped  across  the  floating  body,  hiding  it. 
Without  a  word  the  two  put  on  their  caps, 
grasped  their  paddles  and  hurried  away,  the 
wet  blades  flashing  in  the  sunlight. 


(  209  ) 


Wa-gush 


1 


Wa-gush 

north  wind  flung  itself  wildly, 
viciously  over  the  gray  barrens; 
shrieking  and  whistling,  it  passed  into 
the  dark  forests  beyond. 

A  lone  figure,  urging  on  his  dog  team,  some 
times  pushing  the  sledge  behind  them  when  the 
snow  was  soft,  struggled  slowly  across  the 
mournful  distances. 

"Sacree,  Ah  no  get  to  de  Poste  dees  night," 
he  murmured. 

As  though  in  answer  to  his  words  the  dogs 
stopped,  panting,  their  feet  bleeding,  their  eyes 
half  closed;  worn  out  with  the  weight  of  their 
load  and  the  killing  softness  of  the  snow. 

The  man,  Phine  Poleon,  straightened  up  and 
looked  about,  while  the  wind  tore  at  his  clothes, 
bellowed  in  his  ears  and  slung  the  biting  drift 
over  him.  Everywhere  loomed  the  solitude  of 
the  winter  barrens;  everywhere  the  snow  flew 
along  in  tumbling  clouds;  ever  and  always  the 
gale  shrieked  in  gusts.  The  dogs  had  lain  down 
(  213  ) 


WA-GUSH 


together,  creeping  to  one  another  that  their 
warmth  might  keep  off  the  fury  of  the  storm. 

"Ah  mus'  get  to  de  fores',"  Phine  said  aloud, 
took  up  his  whip  and  curled  the  thong  about 
the  tired  brutes. 

"Allez!  allez!  Marse!" 

They  got  to  their  feet  painfully  and  started 
on,  he  helping  from  the  rear. 

At  last,  after  hours  of  fighting  against  the 
whirling  snow,  he  came  to  the  forest.  Tall, 
black  and  grim  the  hemlock  and  pine  stood  be 
fore  him,  their  tops  pirouetting  wildly  in  the 
wind. 

In  their  shelter  Poleon  halted,  built  a  lean-to, 
gathered  some  dry  wood  and  lighted  his  fire. 
The  flames  ate  their  red  way  speedily,  and 
roared  their  heat  to  the  coldness  of  the  air. 

After  supper  he  fed  the  dogs,  rolled  himself 
in  his  rabbit-skin  blanket  and  slept. 

It  was  nearly  daylight  when  he  woke,  his 
mind  roused  to  action  by  the  feeling  of  the  pres 
ence  of  something.  He  got  up,  started  to  call 
the  dogs,  when  the  gleam  of  a  fire  in  the  forest 
below  arrested  his  voice. 

"Who's  dere?"  he  muttered. 

In  yellow  lines  of  light  that  flickered  and 
(214) 


WA-GUSH 


shone,  the  other  fire  gleamed  warmly.  His  own 
had  gone  out. 

"Ah  go  see!"  and  he  went,  stealing  from  tree 
to  tree,  the  sound  of  his  feet  crunching  in  the 
snow  covered  up  by  the  noises  of  the  angry 
night. 

By  the  brightly  blazing  fire  were  two  figures 
close  together,  a  man  and  a  woman.  Her  face 
he  could  not  see  for  the  dancing  shadows. 

"Dat  ees  Le  Renard,"  he  whispered,  recog 
nizing  an  old  comrade  in  the  man.  He  was 
about  to  go  forward  when  the  woman  rose  and 
passed  behind  the  other  figure.  Poleon  saw  the 
flash  of  steel,  but  could  not  hear  the  groan.  He 
saw  the  body  roll  over  and  twitch  convulsively. 

"Bon  Dieu,  w'at  you  do?"  he  shouted,  leap 
ing  on.  The  woman  saw  him  coming  and 
darted  away  in  the  blackness,  seizing  a  pair  of 
snowshoes  that  were  near  as  she  ran. 

"D n  you,"  he  cursed  and  tried  to  follow. 

He  stumbled  and  slipped,  then  stopped  breath 
less.  Only  the  impenetrable  mass  of  trunks  met 
his  eyes,  their  branches  flapping  monotonously 
to  and  fro. 

"No  can  catch  now,"  and  he  went  back  to 
the  wounded  man. 

(215) 


WA-GUSH 

"Renard,  w'at  ees?"  he  asked  frantically, 
tearing  open  his  friend's  capote  and  shirt.  The 
latter  opened  his  great  black  eyes  for  an  instant. 

"Dat— you— Poleon?" 

"Si — si,"  the  latter  answered,  trying  to  stop 
the  flow  of  blood  that  reddened  the  snow. 

"  Ah'm — een — de — Pol — -eece — dees — year  ; 
catch  mans  for  steal,  he — go — Stonee — Mon 
taigne;*  dees  girl — mak'  me  t'ink — she — loove 
— me;  she  sistaire  dat  mans!"  the  voice  fin 
ished. 

"Ah  catch  her  sure !"  Poleon  screamed,  seeing 
that  his  friend's  death  was  near.  "Wat  her 
name?  no  could  see  her,  me." 

The  dying  trapper  gasped  and  gurgled  a 
moment,  "W — g "  and  died. 

The  dead  man  in  his  arms,  the  glazing  eyes 
looking  unseeing  into  his,  Poleon  crouched, 
dazed,  horror-stricken.  As  in  a  dream,  old 
scenes,  memories  of  trapping  days  together, 
days  that  were  fraught  with  success  sometimes, 
sometimes  burdened  with  failure,  but  always 
hours  of  companionship  and  a  deep  friendliness, 
passed  before  his  memory  eyes. 

"An'  now,"  he  muttered  sadly,  "eet  all  feen- 

*  The  penitentiary  of  the  Northwestern  Provinces. 

(216.) 


WA-GUSH 


esh  forevaire."  Then  he  stood  up  and  took  off 
his  cap.  "Bon  Dieu,  hear  w'en  Ah,  Phine 
Poleon,  say  dat  Ah  goin'  keel  dat  girl  som- 
taim !"  He  looked  up  at  the  heavens.  They 
were  dull  gray  and  black  with  the  coming  light. 
Clouds  sped  over  in  banks  and  hurrying  rifts. 
Gloomy,  forbidding  and  cold  they  were. 

He  picked  up  the  dead  man  and  carried  him 
to  where  his  dogs  were  waiting,  curled  up, 
asleep.  On  top  of  the  load  of  fur  he  fastened 
the  stiffening  form.  Without  breakfast  or  even 
a  thought  of  food  he  crackled  his  whip. 

"Allez— hoop !" 

The  half  light  in  the  forest  showed  the  drifts 
and  piled-up  masses  of  snow,  and  the  dogs 
worked  slowly  along.  Weaker  and  weaker  their 
pulls  at  the  load  became,  then  they  stopped, 
powerless  to  pull  more. 

"W'at  Ah  do?"  Phine  whispered,  wiping 
the  beads  of  sweat  from  his  face.  "Ah  mus' 
leave  Renard  or  my  skeens." 

He  stood  long,  hesitating  between  the  body 
of  his  friend  and  the  fur  he  had  collected  from 
his  traps;  these  meant  money  and  food  to  him. 
At  last — "Ah  buree  Renard,"  and  he  fell  to 
work. 

(  217  ) 


WA-GUSH 


With  his  axe  he  dug  through  the  snow  and 
hacked  at  the  frozen  earth  beneath,  finally  sink 
ing  a  hole  big  enough  for  his  purpose.  Then 
he  undid  the  lashings,  lifted  the  dead  man  from 
the  sledge,  lowered  him  carefully,  put  back  the 
earth,  dragged  the  snow  over  the  spot  and 
stamped  it  down.  Gravely  he  stood  on  it  then, 
and  said  his  Ave  Maria  twice,  called  to  the 
team  and  turned  away,  tears  in  his  eyes. 

At  night  he  reached  the  Hudson  Bay  Com 
pany's  Post  at  Mistassiny  and  took  his  furs  to 
the  factor,  receiving  for  them  food  and  some 
money. 

"  'Tis  a  good  thing  ye  got  a  fair  lot  this 
time,"  the  Scotchman  said  as  he  examined  the 
skins,  "fur  ye  hae  nae  doun  so  well  lately, 
Phin  I" 

But  the  big  French-Canadian  said  nothing. 

For  days  he  fought  with  himself  as  to 
whether  he  should  tell  of  the  murder  he  had 
seen  committed,  because  the  Post  was  asking  for 
Le  Renard,  but  he  argued,  "Ah  no  know  dat 
w'man;  dey  no  b'lief  me;  mabbe  t'ink  Ah  keel 
Renard,"  and  he  was  silent. 

The  knife  that  he  had  found  in  his  friend's 
back  he  kept.  It  was  a  peculiar  blade,  with  a 
(218) 


WA-GUSH 

moose-horn  handle  and  a  blunted  haft.  He 
would  take  it  out  when  he  was  alone  in  his  tepee 
and  look  at  it,  moisture  in  his  gaunt  eyes. 

"Ef  Ah  onlee  knew  who  deed  dat !"  he  would 
whisper  over  and  over  again. 

Each  night  before  he  slept  he  solemnly  re 
peated  his  vow  to  kill  the  girl  "somtaim,"  and 
each  day  he  watched  everything  and  every  one 
about  the  Post  furtively,  but  learned  nothing. 
The  questions  about  Le  Renard  faded  away. 

"He  mus'  ha'  lost  hisself,"  the  factor  said. 

But  Poleon  knew  and  he  chafed  at  his  own 
powerlessness.  All  winter  he  worked  on  at  his 
traps,  and  when  spring  came  he  had  a  good 
credit  account  at  the  store. 

"Ah  goin'  be  marry,"  he  announced  abruptly 
one  day  to  the  factor. 

"Who?"  the  latter  asked. 

"Wa-gush."      (Little  Fox.) 

"She  is  a  fox,  too,"  and  the  Scotchman 
chuckled,  "but  I  hae  nae  doot  ye  can  beat  her 
well  enou'  to  keep  her  frae  foxin',"  and  he 
laughed  aloud. 

"Ah  loove  her,  dat  all  I  know,"  Poleon  an 
swered  gravely  and  went  out  of  the  store. 

On  a  glorious  June  day,  when  the  trees  were 
(  219  ) 


WA-GUSH 


green  with  springing  life,  and  the  air  warm 
with  the  luxury  of  the  coming  short  months  of 
heat,  Poleon  was  married  to  Wa-gush,  the  little 
Indian  girl  he  had  grown  to  love,  if  a  rough 
mastership  with  a  passionate  adoration  besides 
can  be  called  love.  All  the  Post  were  there, 
and  when  the  Jesuit  father  pronounced  his  bless 
ing,  they  cheered. 

Wa-gush  and  Phine  took  up  their  home  in  a 
large,  fine  tepee  that  Poleon  had  built  for  the 
occasion.  The  girl  was  slim,  but  strong  in 
body,  muscular  and  active.  Her  face  was  of 
the  Chippewa  type,  with  long,  slender  nose, 
aloe  eyes,  high  forehead,  straight  black  hair, 
tiny  feet  and  hands. 

"Dieu,  Ah  loove  you!"  Poleon  whispered 
softly  to  her  one  night  as  the  little  supper  fire 
flamed  and  spluttered  at  their  feet.  She  looked 
at  him  and  her  eyes  narrowed  more  than  ever. 

"An'  Ah  loove  you !"  she  answered  softly, 
tapping  her  beaded  moccasins  with  a  little  stick. 
Poleon  never  beat  her;  on  the  contrary  he  car 
ried  the  wood,  built  the  fires,  hauled  the  nets 
on  the  lake ;  in  short,  did  everything  that  is  usu 
ally  done  by  the  squaws — so  much  so  that  the 
Post  laughed  at  him. 

(  220  ) 


WA-GUSH 

"Ye  do  love  her,  don't  ye,  Poleon?"  the  fac 
tor  said  one  day  sarcastically. 

"Ai-hai"  (yes),  he  answered. 

All  this  time  of  great  happiness  with  the  girl, 
the  old  sorrow  for  his  friend  was  working  at 
his  heart.  He  would  sit  by  his  fire,  with  her 
on  the  other  side,  and  somberly  dream,  some 
times  seeing  the  death  picture,  sometimes  al 
most  feeling  Le  Renard  in  his  arms. 

Often  he  tried  to  tell  her  of  his  pain,  but  at 
each  attempt  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  No, 
he  could  not  make  her  unhappy,  especially  be 
cause  they  both  hoped  for  a  child.  Unseen  he 
would  take  out  the  knife  and  gloomily  handle 
it,  wondering,  praying  that  some  time  he  might 
have  his  vengeance. 

The  days  passed  on,  one  by  one,  each  filled 
with  its  own  particular  happiness  with  Wa-gush, 
each  bringing  nearer  the  longed-for  event.  In 
the  evenings,  when  his  nets  were  hauled  and  the 
dogs  fed,  Poleon  would  take  her  out  on  the 
lake  in  one  of  his  birch-bark  canoes  and  paddle 
quietly  along  the  warm,  dark  shores,  startling 
the  deer  from  their  feeding,  and  listening  to 
the  lonely  hoot  of  owls. 

One  night  his  sorrow  was  too  great. 
(  221  ) 


WA-GUSH 

"Cherie,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Ai?"  She  put  her  hand  on  his  knee  that 
rested  on  the  canoe  bottom. 

"Ah  have  beeg  pain!" 

"Ai?"  she  said  again,  waiting. 

He  drew  out  the  knife  from  his  bosom. 

"Dees  kn'fe "  he  began,  when  he  heard 

the  startled  gasp,  felt  her  shiver  run  over  the 
canoe  and  looked  up.  In  the  moonlight  her 
dusky  face  was  white,  and  her  eyes  burned 
strangely  at  him.  She  controlled  herself  by  a 
valiant  effort. 

"Ai?" 

A  wild  thought  flashed  across  him,  and  he 
remembered,  could  hear  the  dying  man's  at 
tempt  at  a  name:  "W — g " 

She  was  herself  again.     "Tell  to  me?" 

And  he  told  her  the  story,  watching,  now  that 
the  iron  was  in  his  heart,  with  the  keenness  of 
a  hound,  but  Wa-gush  gave  no  further  sign. 

"Dat  too  bad,  Poleon,"  she  said  when  he  fin 
ished;  "you  mus'  fin'  dat  girrl  an'  keel!" 
Straight  she  looked  at  him  and  he  stared  back. 
No  waver  of  an  eyelid  met  his  gaze. 

"You  t'ink  dat?" 

"Ai-hai"  (yes),  she  answered  steadily,  and 
(  222  ) 


WA-GUSH 

they  went  home.     More  days  passed,  but  now 
they  were  fraught  with  double  pain  to  Poleon. 

"It  no  can  be  dat!"  he  would  say  to  himself 
when  alone. 

At  supper  one  night  the  blanket  at  the  en 
trance  was  pushed  aside  and  a  great  Indian 
came  in. 

"Bo'  jou',  Poleon,  bo'  jou',  sistaire,  Ah 
comme  f'om  Stonee  Montaigne,  Ah'm  free  at 
las' !"  and  he  sat  down. 

Poleon  turned  to  the  girl;  she  was  watching 
him  with  a  tense,  hunted  look. 

"Ah-h !"  he  whispered,  and  talked  on  gayly. 

She  was  lulled  to  carelessness,  thinking  he 
did  not  know,  and  when  he  suggested  they  go 
on  the  lake,  the  next  evening,  she  got  into  the 
canoe  quietly.  The  moon  shone  in  all  its  glo 
rious  splendor,  silvering  the  waters  and  causing 
the  forest  to  appear  as  black  lines.  When  at  a 
distance  from  the  Post,  Poleon  got  out  the  old 
knife. 

"You  keel  Le  Renard,"  he  said,  with  no  an 
ger  in  his  voice,  only  an  ineffable  sorrow. 

"Non — non,"  she  answered,  seeing  the  light 
in  his  eyes. 

"Ah  say  yes,  an'  Ah'm  goin'  keel  youl" 
(  223  ) 


WA-GUSH 


She  begged  for  mercy  as  he  put  the  paddle 
down. 

"T'ink  of  you'  petit,"  she  whispered  then; 
he  crawled  over  the  thwart. 

"Ah  am  t'inken,"  he  said,  and  struck  1  The 
canoe  trembled  for  an  instant,  then  was  quiet 
on  the  calm  waters. 

He  looked  at  her,  dead  at  his  feet,  her  little 
hands  resting  over  the  side.  The  knife  was  still 
in  his  hands. 

"Bon  Dieu,  Ah  have  keel  lak'  Ah  say,  now 
Ah  keel  h'again." 

He  thrust  at  his  own  chest  with  a  powerful, 
heavy  blow.  "Adieu,  Wa-gush,  Ah  alway 
loove  you,"  he  gasped  as  he  fell,  overturning 
the  canoe  by  his  weight. 

The  waters  rolled  away  in  sullen  ripples  after 
the  splash;  and  the  upturned  canoe  floated  mo 
tionless  and  dark  on  the  still,  moonlit  surface. 


(224) 


Follette 


Follette 

BRISBOIS  BRI^RE  took  off  his  dogs' 
harness  slowly.    He  was  tired  from  the 
long  trail  and  disappointed  in  the  day's 
collection  of  fur. 

"Sacre  Dieu!"  he  muttered,  throwing  the  last 
trace  into  a  corner,  "an'  you,  Follette,  look  mos' 
lak'  womans  som'taim !"  He  bent  over  one  of 
the  eight  dogs  that  sat  about  his  feet,  staring 
fixedly  into  its  face.  The  look  was  given  straight 
back — unblinking  and  steely  light  gray  the 
brute's  eyes  were. 

"Tiens,"  Brisbois  whispered,  "tiens?  Dere 
ees  som't'ing  fonnee  een  dose  eye  dat  look 
comme  c.a !"  He  turned  away,  went  out  of  the 
shed,  leaving  the  dogs  to  rustle  their  beds  into 
the  pine  needles  and  leaves. 

The  wild  north  land  was  deep  with  snow,  and 
the  forest  about  was  somber;  cold  in  the  fading 
afternoon  hours.  The  light  wind  that  droned 
wearily  away  among  the  peaks  of  the  hemlock 
and  pine  had  the  sting  of  the  ice  barrens.  Bris 
bois  stopped  at  the  low  doorway  of  his  hut,  look 
ing  at  the  skies. 

(227) 


FOLLETTE 

Mass  on  mass,  sluggishly  turning  and  writh 
ing,  the  snow  clouds  dragged  across  the  tree- 
tops,  vanishing  only  because  forced  on  by  the 
crowding  banks  behind. 

To  the  left  of  the  little  clearing  a  trail  led 
away  somewhere  into  the  northeast,  its  faintly 
discernible  opening  visible  for  but  a  few  feet 
beneath  the  spreading  branches.  At  the  right, 
a  winter  road  broke  the  evenness  of  the  forest 
ring,  but  its  bed  was  clean  and  even;  unbroken 
by  man  or  beast. 

"Lisette,"  he  called,  going  in. 

"Hein?" 

"Souper  readee?" 

"Baim-by,  few  minutes!" 

He  sat  down  by  the  little  stove,  and  slowly 
drew  off  one  moccasin.  It  dripped  water  over 
the  bright  floor. 

"Tu  Bris !"  she  laughed,  noticing,  "tak'  h'off 
h'out  side'!" 

"Bon,  Lisette." 

The  big  Canadian  stalked  to  the  door  again, 
leaned  against  the  jamb,  pulled  off  the  other 
moccasin,  wrung  it  dry  in  his  powerful,  massive 
hands. 

"Stockeeng  aussi?"  he  asked,  smiling. 
(2:28) 


FOLLETTE 

"Non."  She  turned  from  her  fry-pan  on  the 
stove.  "For  toi  Ah  mak'  clean  de  floor!" 

He  took  two  steps,  huge  they  were,  reached 
her  side  and  kissed  her. 

"Dat's  paie  for  do  eet!"  and  he  laughed,  the 
great  sound  filling  every  nook  and  corner  of 
the  cabin,  reverberating  within  its  cramped 
walls. 

"Tu  mauvais !"  she  smiled,  unconsciously  ar 
ranging  the  great  masses  of  black  hair  that 
coiled  loosely  on  her  head. 

"La  !"  She  put  hot  moose  steaks  on  the  tiny 
table;  these  were  cut  thick,  and  the  red  juice 
eddied  about  them  in  the  deep  tin  plate.  Warm 
bread,  steaming  tea,  and  molasses  followed. 

He  began  eagerly,  while  she  watched,  a  glow 
of  pleasure  on  her  strong,  yet  pretty,  face. 

"Cestbon,  hein?" 

His  mouth  full,  another  piece  on  his  fork,  he 
looked  up. 

"Dat  de  bessis'  een  le  Canadaw !  You  mak' 
eet,  dat  'nough  for  me,  Lisette!"  He  chewed 
hard  and  swallowed. 

"Mechant!"  she  murmured,  softly. 

"Com' !  Eat  den  !"  he  ordered ;  she  sat  down 
opposite  to  him,  and  they  ate  together,  he  watch- 
(  229  ) 


FOLLETTE 


ing  her  furtively,  she  noticing  each  mouthful  he 
took. 

No  sound  for  a  few  moments,  but  the  clatter 
of  knives,  the  harsh  rattle  of  tin  forks  on  tin 
plates,  the  great  sucking  gulps  that  Brisbois 
took  of  the  tea  (his  mouth  crammed  with  bread 
each  time) ,  but  she  didn't  care,  as  long  as  he  had 
what  he  wanted. 

After  supper,  he  stretched  himself  indolently 
on  a  rabbit  blanket  near  the  stove,  lighted  his 
pipe  and  smoked  in  silence — thinking.  Lisette 
cleared  away  the  plates,  brushed  the  table  clean 
with  a  spruce  bough,  and  sat  by  him. 

For  a  time  all  was  still,  save  for  his  draws  on 
the  pipe  and  the  exhalations  of  thick  blue  smoke. 
The  cabin  was  dark;  only  the  sheen  of  the  red- 
hot  stove-cover  broke  the  pall. 

"Lisette!"  taking  a  breath  of  clear  air. 

"Hein?"    She  waited,  listening. 

"You  kno'  dat  Follette  ees  som't'ing  crazee 
weet  her  eye'z?"  He  smoked  again. 

"Non;  Ah  no  see  'tall."     She  waited  again. 

"Si !    Dat  chienne  hav'  drole  look  een  face ! 

Ah  see  eet  dees  aftairenoon,  near  to  Lac  de  Pres. 

Ah  was  for  mak'  de  trap  dere ;  no  see  good  place ; 

ask  self,  'Were' ;  by  gar,  turn  roun',  see  Follette 

(  230  ) 


FOLLETTE 


leesterT,  an'  she  ronne  h'up  de  wataire  to  Cari 
boo  cross'n ;  stan'  dere  den !  Ah  mak'  trap ; 
to-mor'  go  see  eef  catch  som'ting;  by  gar,  Ah 
t'ink  dat  chienne  she  leesten  !" 

The  girl  laughed  merrily,  "Tu  Bris,  mon  gar, 
you  tink  tings  curious  all  'taim;  not'ing  dere! 
Follette,  she  no  know  w'at  you  say,  onlee 
Marse!  Allez !" 

"Mabbe!"  he  answered  slowly.  "Mabbe." 
They  sat  in  stillness  then,  he  smoking  calmly, 
she  with  half  closed  eyes. 

"Ah'm  go  bed!"  she  whispered,  and  crawled 
into  the  big  bunk. 

The  great  Canadian  paid  no  attention,  smok 
ing  on. 

Of  a  sudden  he  sat  up,  shoved  his  pipe  under 
the  stove,  crept  carefully  to  the  door  and  list 
ened.  'Way  out  among  the  forests  echoed  a 
strange  wild  cry.  It  rang  and  rang,  cutting  the 
black  stillness  sharply. 

"W'at  dat?"  he  breathed. 

No  wind,  no  sound — nothing. 

"Ah  drream,  hein?"  he  turned  back,  when 
again  the  eerie  sound  filled  the  silence  of  the 
forests  with  its  piercing  volume.  As  he  list 
ened,  breathing  fast  now,  the  call  came  oftener, 
(  231  ) 


FOLLETTE 

each  time  nearer — still  nearer.  Brisbois  was 
frightened. 

"Dieu  an'  Sainte  Vierge,"  he  muttered,  "dat 
le  Ninivoshi !"  But  he  stayed  by  the  door. 

Then  everything  was  quiet.  Not  a  crackle 
of  a  branch,  not  a  soft  step  on  the  snow,  not  a 
whisper  of  living  thing  came  to  his  straining 
ears.  Long  he  waited  and  watched,  his  eyes 
wide  open;  keen  with  a  trapper's  keenness. 
Nothing  but  shooting  stars,  and  the  glowing 
Northern  lights  met  them.  The  vast  trees  stood 
motionless  as  images  carved  into  the  dark  blue 
scintillating  heavens. 

"Bah  !"  he  whispered  then,  and  "Bah !"  again. 
"Ah'm  tire  h'out  an'  h'ave  bad  t'ink!" 

He  went  in,  curled  up  beside  the  girl  and  slept 
deeply  while  the  dark  hours  passed  on. 


The  next  morning  it  was  snowing  hard. 
From  far  up  in  the  low  skies  the  white  flakes 
tumbled  and  whirled,  eddied  and  circled.  Bris 
bois  woke,  saw  the  girl  still  asleep,  crawled  out 
of  the  bunk  quietly  and  lighted  the  fire.  He 
went  to  the  door. 

"Misere,"  he  muttered,  then  cursed.     "Dam' 


FOLLETTE 


dat  snow !  She  come  w'en  Ah  wan'  find  h'out 
som't'ing!" 

As  he  pulled  on  his  coarse  stockings  and  moc 
casins,  still  damp,  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"Et  tu?"  sleepily. 

"Go  'sleep,  Lisette;  Ah'm  mak'  dejeuner;  go- 
in'  Lac  des  Pres,  be  back  een  h'aight — ten  hour 
mabbe." 

She  turned  under  the  blankets  and  slept  again. 

He  cooked  a  slice  of  caribou  meat,  fried  a  bit 
of  pork,  gulped  some  tea,  inhaled  a  few  whiffs 
of  his  pipe,  and  went  out  to  the  dog-shed.  The 
brutes  leaped  round  him,  licking  his  hands,  but 
none  so  caressingly  as  Follette,  the  bitch  leader 
of  the  team.  He  fed  them  one  by  one;  they 
didn't  fight;  they  knew  him,  and  the  result. 
Brisbois  watched  them  eat,  and  chuckled  grimly. 

"Eef  Ah  no  giv'  you  for  food,  w'at  h'appen, 
hein?" 

Seven  paid  no  attention,  but  Follette  looked 
up  quickly  from  the  dried  fish  she  was  tearing, 
and  whined.  The  trapper  started  back  involun 
tarily. 

"Dieu  !    She  on'stand  !"  he  whispered. 

When  they  had  finished,  he  harnessed  them  to 
the  light  sledge. 

(  233  ) 


FOLLETTE 


"Allez!  Marse!"  Away  the  eight  went, 
Follette  in  the  lead,  pulling  valiantly.  Two 
hours  passed,  he  sitting  on  the  sledge  some 
times,  sometimes  striding  beside  it  on  his  snow- 
shoes.  They  came  to  Caribou  Crossing. 

"Merci  done!"  he  said  aloud,  seeing  a  black 
fox  in  his  trap.  He  carefully  sprung  the  steel 
jaws,  releasing  the  long,  lithe  body. 

"Dat  fine!"  he  muttered  in  ecstasy,  smooth 
ing  the  black  hairs,  unbending  the  rigid  limbs. 

Something  disturbed  his  happiness  and  tri 
umph.  He  looked  down  and  saw  Follette's 
gray  eyes  on  him,  and  he  remembered  that  by  her 
insistent  pawings  at  Caribou  Crossing,  he  had 
set  his  trap  where  she  indicated,  and — the  choic 
est  fur  of  the  forests  was  in  his  hands. 

"By  gar,  ef  you  no  hav'  show  to  moi  w'ere 
for  mak'  de  trap  Ah  no  got  dees!"  he  whis 
pered,  a  superstitious  fear  creeping  over  him. 
He  was  fascinated  by  the  intelligent  gleam  in 
the  dog's  eyes. 

"Wat,  you?"  He  sprang  at  her,  shaking 
her  by  her  long,  rough  coat. 

"Dieu !"  he  screamed  then,  as  she  licked  his 
hands.     "Wat  you?    Tell,  hein?"     She  turned 
from  him,  settled  in  the  traces  and  waited. 
(  234  ) 


FOLLETTE 

"Allez  !  Marse !"  He  flung  himself  to  the 
sledge,  already  coated  with  snow. 

The  team  went  on  and  on  obediently,  first  to 
the  right,  then  to  the  left,  as  he  directed.  Then 
he  stopped  them.  As  far  as  his  eyes  could  reach 
were  wavering,  trembling  drifts.  No  wind 
moved  the  flakes — they  eddied  by  their  own 
weight.  The  silence  was  drear;  only  the  seeth 
ing  of  falling  snow  came  to  him.  He  tried  this 
way  and  that,  then  gave  it  up. 

"Ah'm  los' !  Oh,  bon  Dieu !"  Sweat  burst 
from  his  forehead,  and  froze  there  as  it  came 
into  contact  with  the  bitter  air.  An  unutterable 
sadness  dropped  into  his  eyes;  he  caressed  the 
black  fox,  muttering  hoarsely. 

"An'  weet  dees  Ah  wass  goin'  de  Ligne,  got 
two — t'ree  hun'er  dollaires  for  mak'  present  Lis- 
ette!"  He  looked  round,  agony  and  loneliness 
in  his  face.  "Ah'm  no  los' !"  He  cursed  then 
fiercely,  started  the  team  and  traveled  for  a 
long  time,  twining  his  slow  way  in  the  bewilder 
ing  drifts.  No  familiar  landmark  could  he 
find — nothing  but  the  mercilessly  falling  snow 
that  heaped  on  his  shoulders  heavily.  He  real 
ized  that  he  was  absolutely  lost.  He  stopped. 
Gently  piling  on  him,  coldly  embracing  him, 
(  235  ) 


FOLLETTE 


the  great  flakes  came  in  silent  myriads,  dropping 
from  the  skies  with  coquettish  motion.  Here, 
there,  everywhere,  was  the  same  death-like  still 
ness. 

The  snow  seemed  to  know,  and  gathered 
about  his  legs,  climbing  upwards  inch  by  inch. 
He  shook  it  off,  turning  his  head  dazedly  to  the 
four  points  of  the  world.  Then  he  knew  that 
he  was  face  to  face  with  death,  and  he  idly  won 
dered  how  long  he  could  withstand  the  cold. 
The  knowledge  of  what  death  meant,  numbed 
his  mind. 

"Ah  starve  h'ere!"  he  groaned — and  felt  a 
warm  tongue  on  his  hand. 

'Toilette?" 

The  brute  licked  on  appealingly,  looking  at 
him  with  the  same  steady  gray  eyes. 

"Wat?"  he  spoke  aloud,  unconsciously. 

She  yelped,  started  off  to  the  north-east,  came 
back,  licked  his  hands  again  and  squatted  on 
her  haunches,  staring  at  him. 

He  thought  hard. 

"B'en,  allez,  Follette!     Marse  vous  autre' !" 

Into  the  north-east  they  went,  the  leader 
straining  every  muscle. 

"Dere  ees  de  beeg  pine!"  he  shouted  with 
(236) 


FOLLETTE 


relief  in  a  few  hours.     Follette  looked  back  and 
yelped. 

Some  time  later  he  reached  his  home,  stabled 
the  team,  fed  them  bountifully  and  took  the 
black  fox  in  the  cabin. 

"Qu'est  magnifique!" 

The  girl  cried  out,  seeing  the  gorgeous  fur. 

"An'  Ah'm  IDS'  eef  no  for  dat  Follette!" 
he  announced  gravely. 

Tears  came  to  her  eyes  as  he  told  how  he  had 
been  saved. 

"An'  she  mak'  eet  so  Ah  catch  black  fox 
aussi  I" 

A  silence  then.  The  interior  was  shadowed 
by  the  coming  of  night.  Corners  lost  their  out 
line,  the  roof  seemed  farther  away,  the  bunk  a 
vague  big  thing. 

"Par  Dieu!"  he  worked  his  great  hands  to 
gether  till  their  joints  cracked.  "Dat  chienne 
ees  de  fines'  in  Canadaw;  een  monnaie,  mabbe 
hun'er  feefty  dollaires,  hein?" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  surprise  and 
sorrow. 

"You  goin'  sell  Follette  aftaire  w'at  she  h'ave 
do  for  you  ?  Bah !"  She  swung  away.  "In- 
grate!" 

(  237  ) 


FOLLETTE 

He  stared  at  her,  not  understanding  her  point 
of  view. 

"Mais,  cherie,  ef  Ah  get  hun'er  feefty  dol- 
laires,  dat  paie  de  debte  au  Hodson  Baie  Com- 
pagnie."  He  was  hurt  that  she  couldn't  under 
stand  him. 

"You  h'ave  mor'  beeg  debte  to  Follette,"  she 
answered  slowly.  "Tak'  de  black  fox  an'  paie 
Hodson  Baie." 

"By  gar,  dey  no  geef  not'ing  'tall,  mabbe 
debte,  pas  plus,  an'  black  fox  breeng  two — t'ree 
hun'er  dollaires  at  de  ligne !" 

Lisette  shrugged  her  clean-cut  shoulders  and 
lighted  the  candles.  They  had  supper.  Neither 
spoke  often;  he  trying  to  make  his  rough,  sim 
ple  mind  see  what  she  wanted;  the  girl,  with 
a  woman's  quick  sentiment  and  sympathy,  re 
volting  against  selling  this  dog  that  had  done 
so  much  for  her. 

When  his  pipe  was  drawing  well,  the  stove 
sending  out  a  luxurious  warmth,  the  table 
cleared,  she  sat  down  on  the  blanket  beside 
him,  and  worked  a  small  brown  hand  into  the 
huge  fist  that  lay  at  rest  on  his  knee. 

"Bris!" 

"Hein?"     He  looked  down  at  her  kindly. 
(238) 


FOLLETTE 


"No  sell  Follette,  for  me?"  She  edged 
closer;  then  put  her  head  on  his  giant  shoulder. 

He  stared  for  a  time  into  the  open  draught- 
holes  of  the  little  stove,  and  the  red  reflec 
tion  of  the  wood  coals  glittered  dreamily  in  his 
eyes. 

"Non !"  He  rubbed  the  black  bowl  nervously. 
"Ef  you  no  want  me  for  sell  Follette,  Ah  no 
sell !"  And  he  smoked  again. 

"Merci,  Bris."  She  came  still  closer  to  him, 
and  his  long,  gaunt  arm  encircled  her.  Thus 
they  sat  in  peace. 

A  knock. 

"Who  ees?"  he  asked,  leisurely  standing  up, 
taking  his  arm  away  unwillingly. 

"Osasquinini,"  came  a  heavy,  powerful  voice. 

"Dat  Indian,  f'om  Baie  Terrible,"  Brisbois 
muttered,  opening  the  door.  A  blast  of  wind, 
burdened  with  snow,  whirled  in  as  the  tall,  lanky 
Indian  entered.  He  shook  the  white  bits  from 
his  capote,  took  it  off,  threw  it  in  a  corner  and 
went  over  to  the  heat. 

"Bo'  jou' — bo'  jou' !"  he  said,  quietly. 

"Bo'  jou'."  Brisbois  lighted  his  pipe  as  he 
spoke.  "An'  you,  w'ere  go?" 

"Ev' place!" 

(  239  ) 


FOLLETTE 

The  Canadian  looked  up,  startled  by  the  sad 
ness  in  the  other's  voice. 

"Hungree;  giv'  eat!"     The  Indian  waited. 

Lisette  looked  at  her  husband,  he  motioned, 
and  she  got  cold  moose  meat,  some  bread  and 
soggy  flour  cakes. 

"Miguetch"  (thanks).  Osasquinini  bolted 
the  food.  When  it  was  all  gone  he  squatted 
cross-legged  on  the  blanket. 

"Smok'?" 

Brisbois  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips  and  passed 
it  to  the  other. 

"Miguetch!" 

Puff — puff — puff  from  the  Indian,  no  words. 

"Were  go?"  Brisbois  asked  again. 

The  Indian,  his  emaciated  face  aglow,  spoke 
monotonously. 

"You  white  man,  understand  Indian?" 

"Ai-hai"   (yes),  the  Canadian  answered. 

"You  want  hear  story?" 

"Ai-hai!" 

Stillness  in  the  cabin,  while  the  Ojibway 
warmed  his  long  hands,  smoking  the  while. 
Brisbois  sat  down. 

"You  know  Indian  belief?  When  dead,  In 
dian  turn  into  animal?" 

(  240  ) 


FOLLETTE 


"Ai-hai!" 

"Long  time  ago,  twenty-four  moons,  Osas- 
quinini  marry.  Be  marry  eight  moons.  White 
man's  sickness  come  to  squaw.  Osasquinini 
don't  know  what  do.  Squaw  die!"  The 
Indian's  voice  shook,  and  the  guttural  words 
of  his  language  trembled  at  each  utterance. 

"Indian  know  she  animal,  Indian  know  she 
love  him  now — and — Indian  cannot  find.  Osas 
quinini  has  searched  everywhere,  and  called  the 
language  of  the  animals  he  knows.  Was  near 
here  last  starlight,  calling  to  the  wolves;  no 
answer!" 

The  Canadian  drew  a  deep  breath,  shudder 
ing. 

Lisette  was  staring  at  the  bronzed  face  with 
breathless  curiosity. 

"An'  squaw?  W'at  like?"  she  asked,  in  the 
jargon  the  Indians  know. 

"She  was  strong  like  the  beaver,  tall  like  the 
caribou,  quick  as  the  sable,  clever  as  the  fox." 
He  stopped,  smoking  hard;  then  continued. 
"Osasquinini  hunt  everywhere  for  her.  Can  see 
only  her  gray  eyes,  can — 

"W'at  say?"  the  girl  interrupted  fiercely. 

The  Indian  looked  at  her  contemptuously. 
(24I) 


FOLLETTE 

"Osasquinini  get  no  help  from  white  woman; 
he  go!" 

"Pash-ke-san !"  [wait]  she  whispered,  getting 
to  her  feet.  Brisbois  felt  the  Indian's  power, 
and  hers.  He  sat  on.  She  went  out  into  the 
wild  night,  struggled  to  the  dog-shed. 

"Follette,"  she  called.  A  whimper,  a  rustling 
and  the  leader  crouched  at  her  feet. 

"Marse !"  she  ordered,  while  the  seven  others 
growled  and  grumbled.  She  fastened  the  door 
on  them ;  then  led  the  way  in  the  chilling  snow 
drifts,  to  the  cabin. 

"Viens,  Follette!"  she  coaxed;  the  dog  hung 
back. 

"Viens,  marse!"  She  stamped  excitedly  on 
the  threshold;  the  brute  followed  her  in  then. 
She  shrank  behind  the  shadows  of  the  bunk, 
watching. 

Follette  looked  about,  saw  the  Indian,  leaped 
to  him,  crouching  between  his  knees,  her  eyes 
on  his  face.  He  stiffened,  leaned  forward,  and 
kissed  the  long  mouth,  smoothing  the  rough  hair 
on  her  head. 

Brisbois'  face  was  white  in  the  wavering 
candle-light. 

"Dieu !"  he  whispered. 

(  242  ) 


FOLLETTE 

The  Indian  stood  up,  inch  by  inch,  Follette  at 
his  knees. 

"Osasquinini  has  found,"  he  muttered. 
"Miguetchl" 

He  went  to  the  door,  Follette  at  his  heels, 
her  gray  eyes  fixed  on  him. 

"Miguetch,"  the  Indian  said  again  slowly, 
and  vanished  into  the  stormy  night,  the  dog 
following. 


(  243  ) 


The   Indian's  Vengeance 


The   Indian's   Vengeance 


M 


sun  rose  clear  and  strong  over  the 
silent  forests,  and  shot  long,  golden 
paths  on  the  sullen  moving  waters  of 
the  Albany  River.  It  was  mid-summer  and  the 
dark  green  of  the  fir  and  pine  stood  out  in  sharp 
relief  against  the  lighter  shades  of  the  hard 
wood  ridges.  Far  off  a  range  of  mountain 
heights  loomed  heavy  and  massive;  a  wavering 
line  reaching  up  toward  the  pale,  tinted  skies. 
In  a  clearing,  surrounded  by  alder  bush  and 
growing  hemlock  stood  a  little  log  hut;  prim 
and  severe  it  seemed  in  this  blaze  of  forest 
color.  Below  it  the  river  flowed  silently  on, 
its  flat  surface  broken  only  by  eddies,  and  bur 
dened  with  white  froth  that  floated  down  from 
the  falls,  whose  roar  came  faintly  through  the 
trees.  Two  birchbark  canoes  were  drawn  on 
the  shale,  their  yellow  sides  shining  with  the 
night's  dew.  The  split-board  door  of  the  hut 
opened  suddenly  with  a  jerk;  Jim  Blake,  trap 
per,  stepped  out. 

"Tom  said  as  how  it  'ud  be  a  fine  day,"  he 
(  247  ) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

yawned,  stretching  his  long,  wiry  arms.  He 
turned  and  stuck  his  head  through  the  door. 

"Tom !  Tom  !  get  up  ye  lazy  scamp  !  Th' 
sun's  hour  high!" 

Without  waiting  to  see  the  result  of  his  call 
Blake  went  down  to  the  river,  rolled  up  his 
tanned  skin  shirt-sleeves,  and  "washed."  Hav 
ing  thoroughly  spattered  himself,  snorted  and 
gurgled  he  drew  an  old  rag  from  under  one  of 
the  canoes  and  made  a  pretense  at  drying  his 
dripping  face  and  hair. 

"Gosh  all  hemlock,  yer  the  orneriest  cuss  fur 
washin'  an'  swabbin'  yer  carciss  ever  I  see!" 
Tom,  his  partner,  shouted  from  the  bank.  The 
other  peered  at  him  through  the  holes  in  the 
rag. 

"Bet  yer  life,  but  y'  don't  care  how  dirty 
y'  are!" 

"Naw,  why  fur?  The  more  good  old  dirt 
the  less  blasted  flies  bothers."  Tom  answered, 
pulling  on  his  long  moccasins.  "Whut  '11  ye 
hev  fur  breakfus'?" 

"Gol !    I  clean  furgot  thet  our  meenuu  'lowed 

much  o'  a  choice  in  vittles."    Jim  clambered  up 

the  steep  little  bank  and  stood  beside  the  other. 

Both    large,    raw-boned,    powerful    men    were 

(248) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

these  two  that  lived  in  the  absolute  wilderness, 
and  both  big-hearted,  rough  creatures  of  Na 
ture's  own  making. 

"Say,  Tom" — Blake  put  his  scarred  hand  on 
the  younger  man's  shoulder — "honest,  now  d'y 
think  thet  Ah-teg  stoled  them  furs?  Kinder 
'pears  ter  me  thet  As-sin-ab  is  the  wust  critter 
o'  th'  two."  The  other  stared  thoughtfully 
across  the  now  white  shining  river. 

"Wall,  I  dunno;  Ah-teg  is.'n  bad  company 
with  thet  other  skunk  Indian,  an'  I  think  as 
how  we'd  oughter  go  up  an'  larrup  the  two  on 
'em  jus'  on  gineral  principles."  Jim  laughed 
quietly. 

"Le's  eat  fust."  They  went  indoors,  and 
while  one  shaved  a  bit  of  dry  wood  for  kind 
lings  the  other  got  out  the  bread,  salt  and  tea 
and  a  lump  of  pork.  From  a  bag  that  hung  out 
side  he  brought  in  some  caribou  meat,  cut  in 
long,  thin  strips;  then  he  cooked  on  the  little 
stove  in  which  a  bright  fire  crackled  and  snapped. 
The  appetizing  odors  of  frying  meat  soon  filled 
the  pine-scented  interior,  and  particles  of  pork 
fat  spluttered  angrily  on  the  hot  metal. 

"Damn,  I  put  in  too  much  tea !"  and  Tom 
made  a  dive  with  the  tin  spoon  into  the  boiling 
(  249  ) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

kettle.  "Ouch,  damn  twict!  I  bu'nned  me- 
self!" 

"Easy,  son,  easy;  ye  always  jump  too  quick, 
an'  when  ye  finds  thet  out  ye  jump  ag'in,  makin' 
two  breaks  'stead  o'  one,  see?" 

"Shut  up !"  Tom  growled  good-naturedly, 
"  'r  I'll  pour  it  all  over  y' !"  The  two  then 
ate  in  silence,  the  rattling  of  the  tin  plates  and 
cups  sounding  harshly  loud  in  the  little  room. 

Just  as  they  were  finishing  two  shadows  fell 
athwart  the  rude  table.  Blake  looked  up. 

"Damn  if  it  ain't  Ah-teg!  An'  who've  ye 
got  with  ye?"  he  asked,  seeing  the  tall,  gaunt 
Indians  standing  impassive  in  the  doorway. 
The  one  he  had  addressed  moved  forward  and 
squatted  near  the  stove.  His  keen,  black  eyes 
roved  around,  noticing  everything. 

"As-sin-ab,"  he  answered,  gutturally,  waving 
his  brown  hand  toward  his  companion,  who  sat 
cross-legged  on  the  threshold. 

Meanwhile  Tom  was  clearing  up  the  break 
fast  remains.  Ah-teg  reached  out  and  took  the 
meat  that  was  left,  tore  it  in  two  and  threw  a 
piece  to  his  friend. 

"We  hon-gre-e,"  he  said,  as  he  munched 
slowly.  There  was  a  silence.  Jim  filled  his 
(  25°  ) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

pipe  and  lighted  it;  Tom  sat  on  the  table  swing 
ing  his  legs.  The  Indians  gravely  wiped  their 
hands  on  their  leggings,  then  Ah-teg  stood  up. 

"We  come,  Ogama  [Chief],  to  ask  white 
man  counsel.  Our  medicine  man  no  tell  what 
Inssen-abe  [Indian]  want  to  know.  In  white 
man  hunting-ground  can  Ogama  an'  fr'en'  have 
same  squaw?" 

Blake  smiled,  then,  not  wishing  to  hurt  the 
Indian's  feelings,  he  answered  gravely:  "No, 
white  man  have  squaw  for  himself." 

"Miguetch"  [thanks].    Ah-teg  turned  to  go. 

"Hold  on  a  min'te,  hev  ye  got  any  fur  to 
trade?"  Jim  asked.  The  bronze  face  looked 
steadily  at  him. 

"Ogama  know  no  fur  when  Te-bek-te-ge-sis 
[noon]  hot,  an'  Ah-teg  no  steal  white  man 
ad-ik  [beaver]  !  Ah-teg  see  cache  open  when  de 
leaf  come  out."  With  these  words  the  Indian 
stalked  out,  his  companion  following  closely, 
their  light  blankets  fluttering  in  the  breeze. 

"Wall,  wouldn't  thet  h'ist  ye?"  Tom  said  in 
amazement.  "How  in  all  tarnation  did  they 
know  we  suspicioned  'em  of  breakin'  our 
cache?" 

"They're  pretty  sharp,  them  Indians;  I  axed 
(251) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

Ah-teg  too  suddint  like  'bout  fur  I  guess.  Shoo, 
thet's  too  bad  altogether;  thar  ain't  no  use  in 
tryin'  ter  find  out  now !"  Jim  sucked  viciously 
at  his  pipe  for  a  few  moments. 

"Where  Ve  I  see'd  thet  As-sin-ab  afore?"  he 
muttered  to  himself  then. 

"He  looks  a  heap  like  one  o'  the  critters  we 
knowed  down  in  th'  Pine  Creek  country  when 
we  was  workin'  thar,"  Tom  suggested.  Blake 
leaped  to  his  feet.  "By  thunder,  son,  ye're  dead 
right !  I  recollect  him  now;  he's  the  sucker  thet 
won  a  quarter  o'  caribou  when  we  was  asleep, 
d'ye  mind?" 

"Sure!"  the  other  answered,  "an'  I'll  bet  a 
week's  fur  thet  them  two  broke  our  cache !" 

"Cain't  do  nawthin'  'bout  it,  leastways  not 
now,  nohow!"  and  Blake  spat  angrily  at  the 
box.  "Hell!" 

They  sat  there  idly  watching  the  long  grasses 
in  the  clearing  wave  and  bow  in  the  wind,  and 
Jim's  eyes  became  fixed  on  a  mother  sheldrake 
and  her  brood  of  young  ones  that  disported 
themselves  on  the  river  in  front  of  the  hut. 

"Fool  bird,"  he  whispered,  but  Blake  heard. 

"Why?" 

"Don't  know  nawthin'  't  all;  wouldn't  hev  so 
(  252  ) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

many  little  ones  thet  only  get  eat  up  by  pike  an' 
sich,  if  she  did!" 

"I'm  a-goin'  terpull  th'  net;  those  dogs  hain't 
had  a  bite  since  yes'erday  mornin',"  Blake  said, 
got  up,  went  down  to  the  canoes,  shoved  one  in 
the  water  and  paddled  off  down  stream.  Tom 
still  sat  in  his  place  on  the  table;  suddenly  he 
saw  something  shining  on  the  floor  where  As- 
sin-ab  had  sat.  He  went  over  and  picked  it  up. 

"Where  'd  thet  cuss  get  this?"  he  asked 
aloud,  staring  at  the  little  round  brass  button 
in  his  hand;  he  looked  closely  at  it,  went  out 
into  the  strong  light  and  puzzled  the  dented  sur 
face  into  a  meaning. 

"R— N— W— M— P,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"R — N — W — M — P;  why,  holy  smoke,  this  is 
a  p'lice  button,  an'  last  winter  one  o'  them  fel 
lers'  bosses  come  in  to  Longue  Lac  alone;  they 
didn't  never  find  th'  feller  neither!  Now,  I — 

wonder   if By   golly,    I'll   bet   my  hand 

thet's  it !"  he  shouted.  A  curious  silence  fol 
lowed  the  sound  of  his  voice.  He  felt  it;  even 
the  wind  lulled,  and  the  grasses  ceased  waving. 
He  ran  round  the  corner  of  the  hut,  somehow 
feeling  a  presence.  The  alders  were  agitated; 
he  rushed  among  them,  and  stopped,  listening. 
(  253  ) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

An  instant's  crackling,  then  deep  stillness  until 
the  wind  puffs  whispered  again  among  the 
boughs;  beyond  that — nothing. 

"By  G ,  thet  sneakin'  devil  come  back  fer 

to  try  an'  git  this !"  he  cursed  as  he  went  back. 
"Now  I  know!" 

He  sat  on  the  bank,  thinking  it  all  over  when 
Blake  came  back. 

"Any  fish?" 

"A  few  trout,  couple  o'  good  ones  an'  a  mess 
o'  suckers." 

Jim  told  the  other  the  story  of  the  button. 
Blake  listened  quietly. 

"Wall,  an'  what  kin  y'  do  'bout  it?  Ye  cain't 
prove  nawthin',  not  a  damned  thing !" 

"I  don't  sepose  we  can,  wuss  luck,  but  I'll 
find  out  some  day  fer  sure,  see  if  I  don't!" 

They  fed  their  twelve  dogs,  sewed  some  new 
moccasins  for  the  winter,  then  traveled  through 
the  woods  ten  miles  to  the  Indian  camp.  There 
was  nothing  there!  Tepees  all  gone,  only  the 
tall,  lonely  frames  standing  in  semi-circles  were 
left. 

Charred  embers  of  the  fires  were  still  warm, 
tea  leaves  were  still  moist  on  the  ground,  that 
was  all. 

(254) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 


"Funny  they  lit  out  so  suddint!"  Jim  said 
thoughtfully. 

"Yep,  thar's  a  row  o'  some  kind  on,  sure!" 
and  Tom's  face  looked  worried. 

Overhead  great  wind  clouds  whirled  along, 
casting  heavy  shadows  now  and  then  over  the 
empty  camping  place.  A  grove  of  high  pines 
surrounded  the  spot,  and  the  steadily  growing 
wind  whistled  mournfully  through  the  needled 
branches.  The  two  went  home  again,  and 
talked  till  long  in  the  night. 

The  late  summer  months  passed  quickly,  Tom 
and  Blake  blazing  new  trails,  building  traps, 
making  snowshoes,  and  stiffening  up  their  log 
cabin  to  withstand  the  furious  winter  storms  and 
snows. 

Thus  the  autumn  came  and  went.  The 
two  laid  in  a  supply  of  caribou  and  bear  meat,  so 
that  when  at  last  Jim  woke  up  one  morning  to 
find  the  ground  deep  covered  with  white  they 
were  ready  for  it. 

"I  seed  a  long  shoe  track  to-day,  Tom,"  Blake 
announced,  one  night  in  January,  as  he  came  in 
from  the  bitter  cold  evening  air.  "Traps  warn't 
tetched,  though ;  did  purty  fair  this  trip,"  he  con 
tinued,  throwing  off  his  fur  bag. 
(255) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

"Whar  d'ye  see  it?" 

"D'ye  mind  th'  place  whar  you  an'  me  sot 
out  thet  bunch  o'  sable  traps,  all  clost  t'gether?" 

The  other  nodded. 

"Right  thar,  leadin'  nigh  onto  sou'west." 

"He  must  hev  gon'  ercrost  th'  Long  Barren, 
then,  'cause  thar  ain't  no  way  in  this  heft  o'  snow 
to  git  round  either  side." 

"I  guess  thet's  so."  Jim  pulled  off  his  wet 
socks  and  woolen  trousers.  "I'm  dog  tired! 
Give  us  a  snack,  an'  I'll  bunk  early." 

They  ate  their  supper,  smoked  a  while,  then 
darkness  reigned  within  the  little  shelter,  while 
a  freezing  moon  moved  slowly  over  the  great 
white  lonely  North. 

The  next  morning  the  two  were  off  soon  after 
light,  each  working  his  own  trap  lines.  Tom 
was  traveling  south,  toward  the  Long  Barren, 
when  he  suddenly  came  across  a  sledge  trail.  He 
followed  it  a  short  distance. 

"Who  in  hell  is  this?"  he  muttered,  growing 
excited  as  he  saw  that  the  track  led  straight  on 
for  the  Giant  Split,  as  it  was  called,  a  deep  cre 
vasse  between  two  rock  ridges.  "Damn  fools, 
don't  know  much  'bout  th'  lay  o'  land!" 

He  followed  a  bit  farther,  then,  as  the  sun 
(256) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

was  getting  down  toward  its  chilling  horizon, 
he  turned  back  for  home. 

"Curse  it  all,  Jim,  I  don't  half  like  this  bus'- 
ness;  if  it  was  squar'  Indians,  they'd  come  to  us, 
'cause  they've  seed  our  lines  alright  'nuff!"  he 
said,  as  the  two  sat  at  the  stove  side. 

"I  guess  it's  O.K.,  son;  they  hain't  tetched 
none  o' th'  fur?" 

"Naw,  but  I " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden,  quiet  open 
ing  of  the  door;  a  blanket-shrouded  and  muffled 
figure  came  in,  carrying  snowshoes.  The  man 
unwound  his  coverings. 

"How,  Ogama."     It  was  Ah-teg. 

"Whut  ye  doin'  round  here?"  Blake  asked, 
keeping  back  the  surprise  he  felt. 

The  Indian  had  moved  up  to  the  stove. 

"Ah-teg  come  tell  Ogama  story."  He  pulled 
out  an  old  clay  pipe,  lighted  it.  "Ski-di-wa-bo 
[whisky]  ?"  Tom  gave  him  a  tablespoon ful  of 
their  one  bottle  supply.  The  Indian  puffed 
stolidly,  then  he  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  were 
flashing  fire,  though  his  voice  was  low  and  soft. 

"Ogama  rememb'  when  Ah-teg  come,  As- 
sin-ab,  too,  for  white  man  counsel?" 

Blake  nodded. 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

"Ogama  rememb'  counsel  he  give  Ah-teg?" 

Blake  nodded  again. 

"Ah-teg,  As-sin-ab  want  same  squaw.  Say  do 
what  Ogama  counsel.  Ogama  say  white  man 
have  one  squaw  self.  Ah-teg  get  squaw,  for 
Ah-teg  heap  rich  Missen-abe  in  tribe.  As-sin-ab 
took  squaw,  go  way  far,  Ah-teg  follow  fast  lak' 
de  am-ik  [caribou].  No  find,  no  catch.  See 
trail,  follow  all  time.  Near  to  dead,  see?"  He 
drew  aside  his  long,  beaded  shirt  and  showed  a 
body  worn  to  skin  and  bone.  Then  he  smoked 
again.  The  two  listened  as  though  in  a  trance, 
so  magnetic  was  the  soft,  purring  voice  in  which 
lurked  the  Indian's  relentless  vengeance. 

" Ah-teg  heap  great  think,  follow  more  fast, 
drive  As-sin-ab  up  mountain,  no  catch.  Follow 
more,  an'  find  to-day  track  of  Ah-teg,  his  squaw, 
and  As-sin-ab,  where  two  fall  in  de  mouth  of 
land." 

"Thet  was  their  track  I  seed  ter-day,"  Tom 
interrupted,  eagerly.  The  Indian  looked  at  him, 
and  a  grim  smile  fled  across  the  thin,  tight  lips. 

"Young  Ogama  lak'  young  eagle,  mak'  heap 
noise,  no  feathers,  no  fly!" 

"Thar's  an  end  to  it,  then,  eh?"  Blake  asked, 
reaching  for  a  match.  His  hand  stopped  half 
(  258  ) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 


way  as  the  Indian  rose.  Fierce  and  wild  he 
looked  in  the  candle-light,  standing  there,  his 
feet  apart,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  long  black 
hair  falling  in  rigid  lines  about  his  pain-fur 
rowed  face.  His  eyes  burned  and  glowed  in 
their  sockets,  and  his  nostrils  quivered  like  those 
of  a  well-bred  horse. 

"End,  Ogama  say?"  The  world  of  sarcasm 
in  the  ever-purring  voice  stung  like  a  whip. 

"Thet's  what  I  said,  end,  and  what  can  Ah- 
teg  do?" 

"Ah-teg  can  kill,  kill,  kill !"  came  the  breath 
less  answer. 

"How,  if  they're  dead  in  the  Split?" 

"Ogama  no  know  that  Missen-abe  live  like 
animal  after  dead?" 

"Shucks,  rot,  hell,  anything,"  Tom  blurted 
out. 

The  tall  Indian  looked  at  him  in  withering 
contempt,  then  turned  to  Blake. 

"Will  Ogama  lend  Ah-teg  gun?" 

"What  for?" 

In  majestic  silence  the  Indian  lifted  his  hand 
till  the  fingers  pointed  straight  at  the  trapper. 

"De  Manito  he  tell  Ah-teg  dat  As-sin-ab  is 
fox  now,  an'  dat  Ah-teg  squaw  is  Wa-ba-boos 
(  259) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

[white  rabbit].  As-sin-ab  he  kill  man  of  Great 
White  Squaw  an' " 

"Th'  p'liceman;  I  knowed  I  was  right !"  Tom 
rubbed  his  hands  in  glee.  The  Indian  paid  no 
attention. 

"An'  great  Manito  tell  Ah-teg  to  shoot  self 
in  head,  then  Ah-teg  be  wolf  and  kill,  kill,  kill  1 
Give — Gun !" 

Hypnotized  by  the  black  eyes  that  stared 
through  and  through  him,  Blake  reached  slowly 
for  the  rifle,  and  handed  it  to  the  Indian.  With 
a  wild,  ringing  cry,  Ah-teg  cocked  it,  put  it  to 
his  head,  between  his  eyes,  and  pulled  the  trig 
ger.  He  dropped,  a  lifeless  heap. 

The  two  stared;  the  silence  was  absolute. 

"My  God!"  Tom  whispered,  in  awe.  "My 
God!" 

All  night  they  talked  in  whispers,  not  daring 
to  move  the  body,  so  strong  had  been  the  In 
dian's  power.  At  daylight  Jim  looked  out.  It 
had  begun  to  snow,  and  the  white  particles 
floated  down  in  silent  myriads. 

"We'd  best  go  to  th'  traps  this  mornin',  Tom ; 
we'll  lose  fur  if  we  don't;  we  can  bury — him — 
this  arternoon." 

They  started  out  together  tacitly,  neither  car- 
(  260) 


THE    INDIAN'S    VENGEANCE 

ing  to  be  alone.  Blake  was  in  the  lead  as  they 
came  to  the  Split,  which  they  had  to  cross.  He 
stopped,  shaking  all  over. 

"Look,"  he  muttered,  hoarsely,  "look!" 

On  the  far  side  of  the  Split,  just  where  a 
sledge  trail  led  into  the  soft  engulfing,  choking 
snow,  sat  a  timber  wolf;  it  watched  them 
steadily. 

"At  its  feet,  man,  at  its  feet !"  Tom  whispered. 

There,  under  the  half-open  jaws,  with  the 
drool  dripping  slowly  on  them,  lay  the  dead 
bodies  of  a  white  rabbit  and  a  fox. 

The  two  turned  and  sped  away,  the  lone  great 
wolf  watching  them  disappear  in  the  snowy 
distance. 


(  261  ) 


The    Taking  of  Almighty  Voice 


The   Taking  of  Almighty   Voice 

An  Incident  of  the  R.  N.  W.  M.  P. 

HAT'S  that  moving?" 
"Where?" 

"Just  between  those  two  hills;  see 
it?    There  it  goes!" 

The  two  Mounted  Policemen  stared  at  the 
rolling  hills  and  valleys,  purplish  blue  in  the 
fading  daylight. 

"I  see  it,  now !"    Then  silence. 

The  horses  champed  nervously  at  their  bits, 
the  tinkling  of  metal  sounding  loud  in  the  quiet 
of  the  twilight  prairie.  Now  appearing,  then 
vanishing,  then  coming  into  view  again,  a  mov 
ing  mass  crawled  along,  sometimes  lost  in  the 
shadows,  again  strong  in  the  high  lights  between 
the  hills. 

"Looks  like  cattle  moving,"  Somers  said  then, 
slowly.  The  two  watched  on. 

"It's  cattle  all  right,  but  who'd  be  moving 
them  at  this  time  of  night?" 
(265) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

Andrews,  the  other  Constable,  offered  no 
suggestions. 

Slowly  the  daylight  dimmed.  Shade  by 
shade,  shadow  by  shadow  the  twilight  grew, 
enveloping  the  distances  in  vague  misty  hues. 
In  the  east  a  lone  star  glowed  and  twinkled 
brilliantly,  sharp  cut  against  the  azure  deep  of 
the  heavens. 

"I'm  going  to  see;  you  wait  here,"  Andrews 
said,  sharply,  spurred  his  horse  and  cantered 
away. 

Somers  watched  the  easily  loping  horse,  its 
rider  lending  himself  gracefully  to  the  motion, 
out  of  sight  among  the  glooms. 

"A  late  farmer,  maybe  Nicholls,"  he  mut 
tered,  and  dismounted.  The  horse  stretched  its 
neck  to  lengthen  the  reins,  then  nibbled  daintily 
on  the  green  spring  grasses  that  carpeted  the 
June  prairies  with  long,  luxuriant  growth,  so 
different  from  the  blasted,  stiff  verdure  of  the 
summer  months. 

"It's  too  bad,"  he  whispered  on,  "that  there 
never  is  any  excitement;  in  the  good  old  days  of 
Indian  fights  a  man  could  find  some  fun  now 
and " 


Crang — crack — crang — crang- 
(  266) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

The  spits  of  fire  pierced  the  gloaming  angrily; 
then  a  deep  stillness  reigned.  Somers  sought  to 
focus  his  eye  on  the  spot  from  which  the  tongues 
of  flame  had  leaped.  Nothing!  He  mounted 
quickly,  and  waited,  listening.  No  sound  dis 
turbed  the  silences  of  the  prairie  night.  Insect- 
eating  hawks  darted  hither  and  thither  with 
light  swishing  of  wings;  coyotes  yelped  here  and 
there  in  the  valleys;  beyond  these  sounds — 
silence ! 

Somers  waited  and  waited,  his  horse  fret 
fully  pawing,  throwing  its  head  up  and  down. 

"By  God!  I  must  go,  even  if  he  ordered  me 
to  stay,  as  a  superior."  And  away  he  went,  car 
bine  clattering  against  his  saddle,  spurs  jingling. 

"It's  somewhere  about  here,"  he  said  aloud, 
after  a  good  ride. 

"Steady,  girl,  who-a,  steady!"  He  slid  off, 
hobbled  the  little  mare  and  walked  on. 

"Who-e-e!"  he  called,  putting  forth  the 
strength  of  his  lungs  in  the  wild,  weird  call. 

No  answer.  Darkness,  with  its  palls  of  black, 
hung  heavy  on  the  wastes.  He  lighted  a  match. 

"Somewhere  here  those  shots  were  fi " 

He  stopped  and  saw. 

Huddled  in  a  senseless  heap  was  Andrews. 
(  267  ) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

Frantically  Somers  felt  the  cooling  hands, 
desperately  he  listened  for  a  heart  beat;  but  no 
beat  came. 

He  stood  up. 

"Forty — fifty  miles  to  barracks,  but  I'll  do  it 
before  daylight,"  and  he  mounted. 

Pound,  pound,  plud-a-plud  sounded  the  mare's 
hoofs  on  the  turf.  Mile  after  mile  passed  under 
the  swiftly-moving  feet,  and  as  daylight  came 
faintly  in  the  east  Somers  reached  the  Region 
Barracks. 

"Andrews  killed,  sir!" 

"What's  that?"  the  Adjutant  who  was  work 
ing  late  asked  sharply,  looking  up  from  the  sheaf 
of  papers  before  him.  Somers  told  the  story. 

"Yes,  yes,  cattle  moving,  Andrews  went  to 
investigate,  shots,  yes,  yes,  go  on !"  And  Somers 
repeated  what  he  had  done. 

"Four  shots;  go  on  !" 

Then  Somers  told  of  having  found  the  Con 
stable's  body,  and  of  having  left  it  there  to 
bring  the  news. 

"It's  Indians,  but  I  don't  think  they'll  touch 
him  now,  sir,"  he  finished. 

"Right,  quite  right!"  the  Adjutant  answered, 
pressing  a  button  by  his  desk.  An  orderly  came. 
(268) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

"Call  the  officer  of  the  night!" 

Lieutenant  Roy  appeared. 

"You  will  order  forty  men  into  the  saddle  at 
once;  Somers  will  guide  you;  find  out  who  killed 
Andrews  and  take  them,  dead  or  alive!" 

"Yes,  sir."     Roy  saluted  and  disappeared. 

"Nothing  to  eat,  man,  have  you?" 

"No,  sir;  but  I'm  all  right,  sir." 

"Tush,  nothing!  Get  something,  tea,  any 
thing  you  like,  but  be  ready  in  half  an  hour  to 
start." 

Somers  saluted  and  went  out  into  the  barracks 
square. 

The  sun  was  barely  creeping  over  the  skyline 
when,  his  hasty  breakfast  finished,  he  mounted 
a  fresh  horse  and  was  ready  for  work.  Men 
ran  hither  and  thither;  horses  whinnied  and 
stamped;  officers  shouted  orders;  in  short,  the 
barracks  were  greatly  excited. 

"Fall  in !  'Tention !  By  column,  right  fours, 
fours  right,  TROT !"  and  they  were  off. 

Now  and  then  the  subdued  sounds  of  conver 
sation  broke  the  monotony  of  the  ride,  but  most 
of  the  time  it  was  clickety-clack,  clickety-clack, 
clickety-clack  over  the  green  prairie.  The  air 
was  soft  and  sweet,  and  the  gophers'  whistles 
(269) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 


came  sharply  through  space.  Clouds  swung  on 
overhead,  while  grasses  rustled  under  the  four 
score  hoofs,  and  a  light  breeze  played  through 
manes  and  tails,  carrying  fresh  wilderness  sug 
gestions. 

Somers  rode  beside  Captain  MacDonald,  at 
the  head  of  the  troop. 

"Bear  a  bit  to  the  right,  sir."  The  necessary 
orders  were  given  and  the  file  swung,  then  trotted 
on.  Hour  after  hour  passed  as  the  rolling  wild 
lands  rose  up  and  dwindled  away  in  the  rear. 
The  sun  climbed  straight  into  the  upper  heavens 
and  shone  there  brilliantly  warm  and  soothing. 
The  lonely  buttes  and  sand-banks  stood  stiffly 
about,  rigid  lines  of  clay  and  earth.  A  hasty 
stop  was  made  for  lunch  and  to  rest  the  horses, 
then  it  was  "ride"  again. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  long  rise  of  hill  coun 
try  came  into  sight. 

"That's  the  place,  sir;  beyond  that  nearest 
range  of  buttes." 

MacDonald  held  up  his  hand,  and  the  line  of 
horsemen  slowed,  then  stopped.  The  officer 
took  out  his  glasses  and  looked  long  and  care 
fully. 

"It  seems  to  me  there  is  a  haze  over  there, 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

across  that  high  ridge;  can  you  make  anything 
of  it?" 

Somers  rested  his  arm  on  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle  and  was  quiet  for  some  moments,  search 
ing  the  horizon  with  the  powerful  instrument. 

"I  think  that's  smoke,  sir;  but  if  it's  them, 
they're  a  long  way  this  side  of  where  Andrews 
was  killed." 

"Very  probably,  very  probably.  They 
wouldn't  stay  there,  surely.  Advance  at  slow 
trot,  and  no  unnecessary  noise,"  MacDonald 
called  to  the  men,  and  they  went  on  again. 

The  long,  narrow,  shrubbed  butte  grew  nearer 
and  nearer;  at  last  they  reached  it,  but  there  was 
no  sign  of  smoke  or  human  being. 

"Halt!"     MacDonald  dismounted. 

"How  far  should  you  say  that  Andrews  is 
from  here?" 

"About  twenty  miles,  sir,"  Somers  answered. 

"Hm — m  !  And  yet  I  know  that  I  saw  smoke 
or  something  very  like  it  in  this  butte!"  The 
officer  turned. 

"Michaels,  take  ten  men,  surround  the  brush 
from  the  far  side,  then  line  up  at  close  intervals 
and  drive  it  through!" 

"Right,  sir!" 

(  271  ) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

"That  ought  to  fetch  'em  out  if  they're  in 
there,"  MacDonald  whispered  to  himself. 

The  eleven  mounted  men  cantered  off  round 
the  corner  of  the  high  undergrowth,  and  the  rest 
sat  waiting. 

"How  many ?"  MacDonald  began,  when 

the  crackling  of  a  rifle  and  the  dull  bo-oom  of  a 
smooth  bore  interrupted  him. 

"They're  in  there,  by  Jove,  they  are!"  he 
shouted  then.  "Steady  now,  men,  steady,  and 
if  they  break  out,  get  after  them  sharply!" 

Craaaaack!  Bang!  Bang!  Bang-bang-pa- 
ang !  Bo-o-oom ! 

The  tension  was  supreme.  Men  strained  to 
get  into  action,  and  it  was  a  strain  for  MacDon 
ald  to  hold  them  back. 

"Quiet,  men,  quiet!  Wait  till  the  others  get 
through;  they'll  have  the  devils  right  enough." 

A  silence  followed  his  words;  nothing  but  the 
wind  whispered  in  the  white  ash  and  quivering 
birch  leaves.  Of  a  sudden  every  ear  was  turned 
eagerly. 

"Give  it  to  'em,  blast  'em,  give  'em  hell!" 
they  heard  faintly,  and  a  cheer  broke  out. 

"SILENCE,  there!"  Then,  pang— bo-om, 
crang !  and  a  far-away  medley  of  yells. 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

From  the  thick  brush  the  snapping  and  break 
ing  of  twigs  sounded,  and  a  single  policeman 
galloped  through. 

Reining  his  horse  to  its  haunches,  he  saluted 
MacDonald. 

"Tims  and  Ryerson  killed,  Dickens  and  Aud- 
ley  wounded,  three  horses  down,  sir!" 

"What  in  God's  name  is  there  in  the  butte?" 

"Three  Indians,  sir,  Almighty  Voice  and  two 
others." 

"That  fiend  again?  We'll  finish  him  this 
time !  Nelson  and  two  men  go  to  relieve  the 
wounded,  the  rest  of  you  in  open  formation  and 
close  in  on  the  butte;  quickly  now,  quickly!" 

Bang!  A  Constable  rolled  from  his  horse. 
The  men  flinched. 

Bang!  The  nearest  heard  the  store  bullet 
whistle,  but  they  set  their  teeth  and  waited. 

Bang !  MacDonald's  jacket  twitched  near  the 
elbow,  and  he  saw  a  ragged  tear.  He  thought 
rapidly,  and  grasped  the  only  thing  to  do. 

"Retreat  steadily  beyond  that  next  rise!" 

The  lone  gun  spanged  again  and  again,  but 
missed  each  time.  They  fell  back,  taking  the 
last  wounded  man  with  them,  and  halted  under 
the  cover  of  the  hill. 

(  273  ) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

"That  devil  knows  we  don't  dare  fire  into 
him  on  account  of  our  men  on  the  other  side, 
damn  him!"  MacDonald  cursed  bitterly.  The 
shots  died  away,  and  from  the  butte  came  the 
remainder  of  the  eleven  men,  bringing  their 
dead.  The  waiting  troop  looked  on  sadly, 
growling  vengeance.  The  Sergeant,  Michaels, 
came  up. 

"Did  you  get  them  all  but  this  one  that  has 
been  potting  us?" 

"No,  sir,  didn't  get  nary  one  't  all !"  the  burly 
Irishman  answered  grimly.  "Ye  moight  as  wull 
look  fur  a  nadle  in  a  field  o'  hay  as  thry  to  git 
thim  suckers  outen  that!" 

It  was  getting  dark  rapidly,  and  the  fact  was 
obvious  that  it  was  merely  a  waste  of  life  to  try 
any  more  that  night. 

"Flint,  return  to  barracks,  report  to  the  Com 
missioner,  present  my  compliments  and  say  that 
the  field  guns  will  be  needed  here  unless,  we  want 
to  lose  a  lot  of  men.  Ride  hard,  don't  spare  the 
horse.  I  want  those  guns  here  in  the  morning 
without  fail;  do  you  understand?" 

"Right,  sir !"  The  man  swallowed  some  cold 
tea  from  his  canteen,  leaped  Into  the  saddle,  and 
the  sound  of  his  horse's  feet  faded  quickly  away. 
(  274) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 


"Michaels,  post  sentries  all  round  the  butte 
with  big  fires;  have  each  man  keep  out  of  the 
circle  of  his  own  fire-light,  or  they  will  snipe 

him,  and  have  a  sharp  watch  kept,  or  those 

things  will  slip  out!" 

"Yis,  sor!"    And  it  was  done. 

Suppers  were  eaten  in  whispering  silence. 
The  wounded  men  tossed  and  tumbled  in  their 
blankets,  and  beyond,  in  the  shadows,  two  mute, 
stiff  forms  were  lying,  covered  with  their  cloaks. 
MacDonald  paced  slowly  up  and  down. 

"This  is  excitement  in  the  Northwest 
Mounted  Police,"  he  muttered;  "not  much  like 
South  Africa,  but  better  than  being  under  an 
uplifted  commoner  at  barracks,  anyway.  I  won 
der  if  he  will  think  it  dignified  to  send  those 
guns?"  He  strode  on,  traveling  about  the  sen 
try  line. 

Crack !  and  he  heard  the  hum-m-m-whe-e-e 
of  the  lead. 

Several  of  the  Police  fired  into  the  brush  from 
whence  the  shot  had  come,  and  everything  was 
still  again. 

An  hour  later,  the  men  that  had  been  sent 
out  from  barracks  to  get  Andrews'  body  came, 
having  heard  the  firing.  The  Constable  had 

(  275  ) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

not  been  mutilated;  they  put  him  beside  the 
other  two. 

"If  anything  happens,  call  me,"  MacDonald 
ordered,  as  he  wrapped  himself  in  his  blankets. 
He  had  scarcely  lain  down  when  he  heard  the 
sound  of  ponies'  feet.  An  old  squaw  and  a 
young  Indian  girl  came  into  the  light  and  dis 
mounted  silently. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  rising. 

The  old  woman  looked  him  squarely  in  the 
face,  and  her  shining  black  eyes  glowed  in  the 
yellow  light. 

"Me  Tu-no-sin,  mother  to  Almighty  Voice. 
Me  come  see  him  die  like  his  fadder,  Big  Chief," 
and  she  sat  down.  The  girl  said  nothing.  The 
near  men  grumbled  and  swore  at  the  two,  but 
they  heeded  not. 

At  last  the  night  lifted  and  began  to  move, 
giving  way  to  shafts  of  tinted  light  from  the 
east.  Little  by  little  the  butte  grew  in  distinct 
ness,  till  each  bush  and  stunted  tree  was  plainly 
visible.  Nothing  moved  in  it  anywhere;  only 
birds  that  fluttered  audibly  about  in  the  morning 
quiet.  Then  came  the  sun,  gilding  the  vast 
prairies  in  soft  tone,  banishing  the  dampness, 
mists  and  wreaths  of  hazy  fog  that  swirled  gen- 
(276) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

tly  with  the  faint  wind.  The  fires'  glow  was 
gone;  only  smoke  curled  upwards  slowly.  The 
men  ate  their  breakfasts  in  turn,  keeping  steady 
watch  the  while  on  the  inscrutable  butte  where 
death  lurked  silently. 

"Can't  we  have  a  thry  at  'em,  sor?"  Mi 
chaels  begged,  and  the  rest  hung  on  MacDon- 
ald's  answer. 

"No ;  wait  for  the  guns.  I'm  not  going  to  have 
any  more  of  you  finished  in  there."  The  words 
were  final,  and  the  big  Sergeant  turned  away. 

In  the  middle  of  the  butte  was  an  open  grass 
spot  of  a  few  yards'  width.  Something  moving 
on  it  caught  MacDonald's  eye,  and  just  as  he 
distinguished  what  it  was  a  wild,  eerie  scream 
quavered  on  the  air.  Every  one  looked,  and  two 
threw  up  their  rifles. 

"Wait!"  and  they  put  them  down  again. 

The  thing  was  a  tall  Indian,  standing  boldly 
out  in  the  opening.  As  they  watched  he  began 
to  dance,  and  the  sounds  of  a  long-drawn  minor 
chant  floated  in  soft  cadence  over  the  brush. 

The  old  squaw  leaped  to  her  feet. 

"My  son,  he  sing  the  Death  Song  of  his  great 
people;  he  no  afraid." 

The  girl  stood  by  her  side,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
(  277  ) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

the  rhythmically  swaying  form.  Tu-no-sin 
turned  fiercely  on  the  Police. 

"You  rabbits  all!  See  him  dance  the  Death 
Dance  and  you  are  'fraid  to  go !"  All  the  emo 
tion  of  a  wild,  untamable  race  showed  in  her 
seared  face  as  she  cackled  brokenly.  The  girl 
said  nothing,  but  there  was  a  fire  in  her  eyes. 
The  Sergeant  lifted  his  hand  to  strike. 

"No!"  MacDonald  said,  quick  and  sharp. 

They  watched  and  waited.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  the  song  was  finished,  and  the  Indian 
glided  out  of  sight  again. 

MacDonald  went  up  to  the  silent,  patiently 
waiting  women,  who  waited  to  see  the  end  they 
knew  was  coming. 

"Why  do  you  stay?"  he  asked,  a  pity  in  his 
heart  for  them.  The  old  squaw  never  even 
lifted  her  eyes  to  him.  He  asked  again,  then 
the  girl  spoke  softly. 

"Almighty  Voice  my  chief,  Tu-no-sin,  young 
Eagle.  We  come  to  see  him  die  like  great  brave 
and  wake  in  the  Manito  land.  He  sleep  here. 
We  have  no  son,  no  chief,  no  moon,  no  star, 
when  he  is  gone,  and  we  come  to  see  him  go. 
Ogama*  is  not  angry  with  poor  Indians." 

*White  officer. 
(278) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

He  swung  on  his  heel  abruptly,  a  lump  in  his 
throat. 

"The  guns  are  coming,  they're  coming,  sir!" 

In  the  distance  a  line  was  approaching  fast; 
it  came  nearer,  and  they  heard  the  rattle-clank- 
clank  of  the  wheels,  and  the  jingling  of  harness. 
Sweating  and  breathing  hard,  the  line  drew  up. 
The  Adjutant  was  at  its  head. 

"What's  all  this  nonsense  about  guns?  Can't 
you  get  three  Indians  out  of  a  butte  without 
artillery?" 

Bang!  A  gun-horse  fell,  kicking  and  strug 
gling  to  rise. 

"Unlimber!  Load!  Five  hundred  yards — 
No.  i  gun,  Fire!  No.  2  gun,  six  hundred  yards 
—Fire!  Too  low,  men,  too  low  and  to  the 
left!  Rake  that  thick  stuff  in  that  corner 
smartly !  Ready !  No.  i  gun,  seven  hundred 
yards — Fire!  That's  much  better!  No.  2  gun 
—Ready!  Same  range,  Fire!  Now  keep  at 
that  for  ten  rounds,  then  work  to  the  right! 
Sharply  now,  look  sharp  there,  No.  2  gun!" 
So  volleying  his  orders,  the  Adjutant  dis 
mounted,  and  noticed  the  women  who  stood 
close  to  the  guns,  watching  the  effect  of  each 
shot. 

(  279  ) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

"Who's  that,  who's  that?"  he  asked,  fret 
fully,  and  MacDonald  told  him. 

"Fools!"  was  his  superior's  answer. 

"Now,  gunners,  sweep  that  high  bank  and 
clean  out  the  foot  of  it.  That's  too  low, 
damn  it,  too  low !  Get  up  in  the  air  some 
where  !  That's  it !"  he  shouted,  as  a  shell  burst 
fairly  on  the  bank  and  the  sand  flew  up  in 
clouds. 

The  air  was  sultry  and  sullen  with  acid 
powder  fumes,  through  which  the  sun  came  in 
thickened,  dingy  rays.  An  hour  the  firing 
continued. 

"Cease  firing!"  and  the  bugle  rang  out  clear 
and  strong.  The  silence  was  great  after  the 
tumult. 

"Cleaned  up  that  place  a  bit!"  and  the  Ad 
jutant  chuckled. 

The  brush  was  torn  and  gashed,  scattered  by 
the  explosions;  whole  spots  were  swept  bare, 
and  here  and  there  lone  trees  sagged  weakly, 
trembling  toward  the  ground.  Long  rifts 
showed  through  the  high  grasses  where  shells 
had  hurtled  along,  and  the  sand  banks  were 
deep-pitted  and  jagged. 

The  two  squaws  stood  there,  impassively. 
(280) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

"Eight  men  in  there  to  search  !  The  rest  out 
side  in  cordon  formation!"  MacDonald  com 
manded  the  searching  squad  and  the  little  party 
advanced,  revolvers  in  hand,  scrutinizing  every 
shelter. 

"Here's  one  of  them,  sir!" 

"And  here's  the  other  two !" 

There  they  were,  the  three,  their  guns  in  their 
hands,  one  of  them  evidently  killed  in  the  act  of 
firing  at  the  Police. 

The  squaws  crept  in,  following  the  searchers. 
The  mother  sank  on  her  knees  beside  her  son, 
and  stroked  his  face,  smoothing  the  long  black 
hair.  The  girl  was  on  the  other  side,  simply 
touching  the  dead  man's  hand.  The  bodies  were 
near  the  outer  edge  of  the  butte. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  them,  sir?"  MacDon 
ald  called  to  the  Adjutant. 

"Leave  the  carrion  there  if  they're  dead,  and 
come  along;  we've  got  to  hurry  to  get  these 
wounded  men  to  barracks.  Limber!  Attach! 
Left  wheel— TROT !  Gallop  !" 

MacDonald  put  his  hand  on  the  woman's 
shoulder;  she  rose  in  fury. 

"Go,  White  Ogama  !  We  came  to  see  braves 
die,  not  rabbits  live!" 

(281) 


THE  TAKING  OF  ALMIGHTY  VOICE 

He  called  his  men,  arranged  litters  for  the 
sufferers,  then — 

"Prepare  to  mount !  MOUNT!  Forward, 
TROT !  Men  with  wounded  follow  slowly ! 
Gallop !" 

At  the  top  of  the  last  rise  MacDonald  stopped 
alone  to  look  back.  The  smoke  had  all  gone; 
nothing  remained  of  the  shelling  but  the  wrecked 
butte. 

"Poor  devils,"  he  whispered,  as  he  thought  of 
the  two  women  alone  with  their  dead. 

He  trotted  on  after  his  men,  and  all  was 
silent  again  on  the  prairie. 


(  2S2  ) 


The   Light   of  a   Match 


The    Light  of  a   Match 

WAVE  upon  wave  in  the  wind,  undu 
lation  on  undulation,  the  wheat 
fields  rippled  their  wealth.  The 
glorious  August  sun  heated  the  air  with  shim 
mering  tenseness,  baking  the  short  grass  on  the 
wild  lands,  but  urging  on  the  feathered  ears  of 
grain  to  finer  growth  and  proportion.  Far 
away,  like  shreds  of  veils,  faint  clouds  were  scat 
tered  over  the  horizon,  timidly  reaching  out 
overhead  as  though  afraid  of  the  scorching  rays. 
The  light  hot  wind  that  played  along  was  laden 
with  the  smell  of  the  grain,  tainted  with  the 
green  reek  of  the  sloughs. 

On  the  top  of  a  rise  was  a  squatter's  home; 
rough  and  gray  it  looked  in  the  fierce  sunlight. 
A  shed  for  the  horses,  an  apology  for  a  granary, 
a  miserable  coop  for  some  chickens,  completed 
the  little  group  of  buildings.  Hysterically  a  hen 
cackled,  announcing  that  rare  thing  on  the 
Northwestern  prairie,  a  fresh  egg. 

The  clatter  of  a  stool,  a  rush  of  footsteps,  and 
(285) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

Samuel  King  tumbled  helter-skelter  from  the 
low,  fly-beset  doorway. 

"Marthy!  Marthy!"  he  shouted,  shrilly,  his 
voice  dying  away  on  the  instant  in  the  burning 
atmosphere,  "Susan's  laid  a  egg  fo'  sure  this 
time!" 

Still  cackling,  the  speckled  hen  retreated;  he 
advancing  eagerly  to  her  nest  under  the  stable 
sill. 

"I  got  it,  Marthy,  I  got  it!" 

Brown,  oblong,  and  warm  it  lay  in  his  rough 
palm. 

"Thank  ye,  Susan."  He  drew  the  sweat  from 
his  forehead  with  a  quick  accustomed  motion. 
The  hen  perched  angrily  on  a  plowshare  and 
cackled  on  vociferously.  Then  from  over  in  the 
corner  of  the  yard  a  cock  crowed  its  harsh  tones, 
softened  by  the  heat. 

"Thank  ye,  too,  Dick,"  old  Sam  said,  gravely, 
and  went  back  to  the  log  house. 

"Thar,  girl !  a  right  fresh  egg  I  got  fur  ye !" 
He  placed  it  carefully  on  the  table. 

The  interior  was  small  and  neat;  a  bed,  a 

table,  three  chairs,  and  a  rusty  stove  were  its 

only   furnishings.      Clothes   dangled   here   and 

there  from  wooden  pegs  on  the  wall,  worn  boots 

(286) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

peered  forlornly  from  beneath  the  attic  ladder 
—nothing  more.  She  looked  up  at  him,  eyes 
tremulous  and  pleading. 

"It's  so  hot,  Sam,"  she  murmured,  from  her 
position  by  the  crack  of  the  north  door.  "It's 
so  hot!" 

"Aye,  girl;  but  ye  must  eat!  Ye  hain't  ate 
nothin'  fur  two  days  I" 

She  gave  a  quick,  petulant  motion. 

"I  don't  want  anything!" 

With  a  deep  sigh  the  old  man  sat  down,  while 
the  blistering  heat  grew.  He  looked  fondly 
and  with  great  pride  over  the  vast  acres  that 
belonged  to  him;  acres  that  were  heavy  in 
weight,  golden  with  dollars — money. 

"Aye,  money,"  he  whispered;  "money  ter 
give  her  everythin'  she  wants,  money  ter  make 
up  ter  her  incause  I'm  old,  money  ter  make  her 
happy!  An'  it's  all  out  thar,  out  thar;  growin', 
fillin'  ter  twenty-five  an'  thirty  dollars  an  acre; 
an',  by  God,  it's  fur  her!" 

"What  are  you  muttering  about,  Sam?"  the 
girl  asked,  tossing  uncomfortably  in  the  tiny 
breeze  that  came  from  the  northwest. 

"About  you,  girl;  allus  about  you;  I  ain't  got 
nawthin'  else!" 

(287) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

She  stood  up  wearily,  smoothing  her  rough 
blouse  and  skirt,  throwing  back  the  loose  damp 
masses  of  hair  that  clung  about  her  face.  She 
was  beautiful,  but  the  great  hazel  eyes  had  some 
thing  unanswerable  in  them,  something  that  no 
man  could  fully  understand. 

"It's  frightful  hot,  Sam,"  she  said,  moving  to 
him.  "I'm  choking — here!"  She  tore  at  her 
throat. 

"Girl,  girl;  since  yer  father  gi'en  yer  ter  me 
as  wife,  I've  loved  ye  all  I  knowed  how.  I'm 
only  an  old  man,  an'  a  rough  one,  but  I'd — 
I'd" — he  looked  about  in  desperation — "I'd 
give  up  anythin'  ye  asked,  ef  et  wuld  make  ye 
happy!" 

"Dear  old  Sam,"  she  whispered,  "dear  old 
Sam.  I  know  ye  would  give  me  anything  I 
wanted!"  She  turned  from  him  impulsively 
and  threw  herself  down  by  the  north  door  again. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet,  the  strong  old  figure 
alert  and  keen,  his  eyes  bright,  and  flashing 
a  strange  gleam  from  beneath  their  shaggy 
brows. 

"What  d'ye  want  then?    I  giv's  yer  money, 
I  giv's  yer  clo'es,  I  giv's  yer  my  old  life,  an'  I 
worships  yer,  girl;  ain't  that  enough?" 
(288) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment, 
while  the  flies  buzzed  and  sang,  while  the  heat 
grew  in  its  suffocating  strength. 

"Sammy,"  she  spoke  with  an  effort,  almost 
forcing  the  words,  "Sammy,  I've  loved  yer  like 
a" — she  hesitated — "like  a  woman  should;  but 
I'm  lonely!" 

The  old  man  looked  at  her;  then  turned  away 
with  an  ineffable  sadness  in  his  eyes. 

"Aye,"  he  muttered,  "she's  lonely  1" 

Thus  the  afternoon  passed  in  reeking,  swel 
tering  hours.  Slowly  the  broiling  sun  sank  into 
a  scarlet  west;  degree  by  degree  the  air  cooled 
until,  with  the  shadows  of  evening,  the  atmos 
phere  was  less  burning  in  its  draught,  less  sweat 
ing  in  its  grip. 

"Girl!"     He  crawled  beside  her.     "Girl!" 

"Yes,  Sammy."  She  woke  from  a  welcome 
doze.  "What?" 

The  old  man  fought  with  himself  for  an  in 
stant,  then  swallowed  what  he  wanted  to  say. 
"Ye  know  I  loves  yer,  don't  ye?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  slowly. 

"Ye  know  I'd  sell  my  soul  fur  ye;  giv'  up 
everythin'  fur  ye,  ef  ye  asked  it?" 

"Ye-es,"  more  slowly. 

(289) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

"What  is't,  then,  ye's  wantin'  ?  Tell  me,  girl ; 
tell  me,  an'  I'll  giv'  it  ye  ef  I  can !  I  hain't  got 
much,  but  what's  mine's  yours,  Honey;  what 
d'ye  want?"  The  old  man's  voice  was  strong 
and  clear;  cracked  a  little  with  years  perhaps, 
but  ringing  true. 

She  lifted  herself  on  one  elbow;  reached  out 
and  stroked  the  long  gray  hair  affectionately, 
kindly. 

"Sammy,  I  shouldn't  talk  this  way,  I 
shouldn't;  but  a  woman's  just  a  woman,  Sammy; 
ye  can't  always  understand  her  ways,  nor  see  the 
meanin'  of  her  words;  a  woman's  a  cur'ous 
thing,  Sammy!"  She  sank  back  slowly  into  the 
little  draught  that  stole  in  under  the  north  door. 

"Aye,  girl,  but  ye'r  the  only  woman  in  the 
world;  ye'r  honest,  ye'r  squar'  to  me,  an'  I — I, 
by  God,"  he  burst  into  deep  sobs  that  disturbed 
the  quiet,  "I'm  only  a  rough  old  man !" 

His  sorrow  appealed  to  her.  She  smoothed 
his  wet  forehead  tenderly,  and  caressed  the 
worn,  gnarled  hands. 

"Never  mind,  Sammy,  never  mind;  women 
don't  know  when  they're  well  off,  they're  fools 
sometimes;  that's  Nature,  Sammy." 

"Natur' !  What's  Natur'  ?"  he  said,  standing 
(  290  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

up.  "I  loves  ye,  and  ye  know  it;  but  I'm  old 
and  cain't  go  galivantin'  round  ter  dances  and 
sich,  incause  all  the  strength  I  got  I  want  ter 
use  in  makin'  money  fur  ye — out  in  the  wheat." 
He  waved  his  thin  arms  toward  the  doorway 
through  which  the  stars  now  flickered  and 
gleamed.  "That's  the  Natur'  I  knows — the 
sun,  rain,  and  frost;  thar  ain't  no  other,  Marthy 
-is  thar?" 

Her  great  hazel-brown  eyes  opened  wide  in 
the  semi-gloom. 

"Poor  old  Sammy,"  she  whispered  softly; 
"poor  old  Sammy;  always  the  wheat!" 

Silently  he  went  out  to  the  stables  and  gravely 
milked  their  only  cow,  the  warm  white  liquid 
hissing  metallically  in  the  tin  pail.  The  odor 
of  straw  soothed,  the  smell  of  the  animal  body 
before  him  calmed  his  sorrow. 

"Sho,  Bess," — he  slapped  the  gaunt  beast 
playfully — "ye'r  gettin'  shy  o'  milk;  grass  is 
p'utty  stiff,  ain't  it?" 

The  cow  looked  at  him  over  her  shoulder  and 
chewed  her  cud  placidly. 

"That's  the  only  Natur'  I  knows,"  he  mut 
tered,  as  he  went  out  into  the  hot  night.  "Onct !" 
— he  drew  himself  up  proudly  in  his  old  tattered 
(  291  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

overalls,  his  faded  blue  shirt — "Onct,  it  seems 
as  though  I  knowed  somethin'  different,  but  I've 
clean  lost  it!" 

His  eyes  wandered  over  the  dark  landscape. 
Gray-black  and  far  away  the  nearest  rises  in  the 
prairie  seemed  stifling;  the  air  came  and  went 
in  his  lungs;  even  his  long  gray  beard  dripped 
with  the  heat  of  his  body.  The  darkness  was 
laden  with  the  invisible  noises  of  the  night; 
myriads  of  wings  hummed  as  insects  stung  and 
flew  away.  Out  yonder  coyotes  yelped,  their 
doleful  voices  rising  and  falling  as  the  draught 
breathed  and  died.  Gophers  whistled  sharply 
at  the  entrances  of  their  holes,  piercing  the 
blackness  with  sounds  that  tingled  the  ear.  And 
over  it  all  a  sky  spotted  with  stars  that  wavered 
in  their  gleam  as  he  looked  at  them.  The  old 
man  went  and  lighted  a  candle.  By  its  flicker 
ing  yellow  sheen  he  saw  the  girl  tossing  by  the 
north  door.  Hurriedly  he  poured  some  milk 
into  a  cracked  coarse  china  cup. 

"Here,  Honey,  have  some  o'  this." 

With  half-opened  eyes  she  took  it  and  tasted, 
then  flung  it  from  her. 

"Sammy!"  she  coughed;  "I  thought  it  was 
water." 

(  292  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

He  picked  up  the  broken  bits  one  by  one  and 
carefully  threw  them  out  of  doors. 

"I'll  get  ye  some  water,"  he  said,  quietly,  and 
took  down  a  bright  bucket  that  shone  faintly  in 
the  candle-light. 

She  started  up  quickly. 

"Never  mind,  Sammy,  it  isn't  worth  four 
miles'  walk." 

But  he  was  gone,  and  a  breathless  silence  came 
on  the  interior,  broken  only  by  the  buzzing  of 
flies  and  flappings  of  moths  toward  the  candle. 
She  settled  back  to  her  old  position,  gasping  for 
a  cool  whiff  of  air. 

****** 

A  figure  appeared  in  the  door — tall,  lithe,  and 
strong,  with  steady  blue  eyes  that  had  no  furtive 
intention  in  them,  even  in  the  candle-light. 

"Martha !"  The  voice  was  low,  soft. 
"Martha!" 

The  girl  sat  up.  "Here,  Fred,"  she  an 
swered,  quietly. 

With  light  steps  he  reached  her  side,  blowing 
out  the  candle  as  he  passed. 

"Martha  !"     He  sought  to  kiss  her. 

"No,  lad !"  She  pushed  him  away  resolutely. 
"It  can't  be." 

(  293  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

"Why,  why?"  the  man  begged,  his  tones 
vibrating  with  his  great  feelings. 

A  silence  between  the  two — deep  silence. 
Then,  "Because  he  loves  me,  Fred;  that's 
enough !" 

"But  he  doesn't  love  you — he  can't — as  I 
do!" 

"Ssssh  !"  she  warned.  "Even  if  he  can't  give 
me  everything  in  the  world,  no  one  else  has  the 
right  to,  onless  he  says  the  word." 

"I'll  tell  him,  I'll  show  him  how  he  can't, 
and  he'll  understand." 

"No,  Fred,  you  mustn't,  because  he's  honest 
in  his  love;  are  you?" 

She  turned  on  him  quickly. 

"You  know,"  he  whispered,  pressing  her 
hand,  "you  know  what  I  have  resisted  for 
you !"  He  stood  up.  "I'll  come  to-night  for 
your  answer,  Martha — to-night." 

Silence  again. 

A  sultry  hour  and  another  passed  on,  she  ly 
ing  there  battling  with  herself. 

"Here's  water,  girl;  fresh  f'om  th'  river,  but 
I'm  afeared  it's  a  trifle  warm!" 

She  drank  eagerly  in  great  gulping  swallows 
the  tepid  water  that  was  in  old  Sam's  bucket. 
(  294  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 


"It's  not  bad,  Sammy,"  she  murmured. 

"I'm  glad,  Honey." 

He  sat  on  the  door  sill,  slowly  waving  a  ket 
tle  cover  to  and  fro  for  a  breeze.  The  night 
became  darker  and  more  dark,  closing  in  over 
the  prairies  in  sultry  heaviness. 

"I  guess  I'll  turn  in,"  he  said  presently,  and 
stretched  himself  in  some  blankets  near  the 
empty  stove. 

"I'll  stay  here  awhile,"  the  girl  said,  and 
edged  herself  as  near  as  possible  to  the  north 
sill. 

His  heavy  breathing  was  the  only  sound, 
while  she  listened  and  waited.  Hot,  hot  and 
more  choking  the  night  was,  threatening  a  thun 
derstorm  or  hail. 

Sam  King  breathed  hard  because  of  his  sor 
row,  because  of  his  helplessness.  And  then  he 
slept.  As  though  in  answer  to  his  last  waking 
thoughts,  he  heard  a  careful  sound.  He  opened 
his  eyes,  and,  silhouetted  against  the  star- 
speckled  heavens  of  the  door,  saw  two  figures. 
Their  outlines  were  sharp  against  the  sky.  He 
almost  cried  out — but  held  his  peace.  No 
sound  came  from  these  two  forms;  no  whisper 
of  their  meaning,  but  he  guessed  who  was  one 

(  295  ) 


of  them.  They  passed  out,  stopped  again,  and 
one  lighted  a  match.  No  word  aloud;  only  the 
look  in  their  eyes  at  each  other.  The  match 
died  out  instantly.  The  sound  of  careful  feet 
coming  in  the  hut,  then  silence. 

Through  the  long  hot  hours  he  tossed  and 
turned.  "She  keers  fur  me,  but  she  don't  love 
me,"  he  whispered,  great  beads  of  sweat  on  his 
brow.  "And  how  could  she? — fool  that  IVe 
been;  I'm  not  suited  for  the  likes  of  her;  'tain't 
Natur',  an'  I  knows  what  she  meaned  this  arter- 
noon;  I  knows  what  she  meaned." 

On  one  side  the  jealousy  of  a  one-time  youth 
urged  him  to  declare  his  knowledge  and  use  his 
power  of  right;  on  the  other  the  sense  of  justice 
to  her  made  him  helpless.  He  thought  for  a 
long  time.  "I'll  do  it — fur  her,"  he  whispered 
then.  In  a  little  while,  when  she  was  quiet,  he 
stole  out  bareheaded,  in  his  coarsely-stockinged 
feet,  and  walked  slowly  along  the  breast-high 
wheat. 

"It  was  all  fur  her,"  he  said  aloud,  mourn 
fully,  letting  the  nearly  ripe  ears  slide  roughly 
through  his  fingers.  Careless  of  his  steps,  he 
wandered  here  and  there  through  the  tall 
growth.  Stems  cracked  and  broke,  whole  doz- 
(296) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

ens  of  stalks  were  bent  and  crushed,  but  he 
walked  on.  Then  from  far  in  the  east  crept 
the  first  green-yellow  tints  of  dawn.  He  stood 
still  and  watched  the  colors  change  and  brighten, 
brighten  and  change,  till  the  lower  heavens  were 
aglow,  then  ablaze,  with  the  coming  sun. 

He  leaned  over  impulsively,  and  drew  hand- 
fuls  of  the  standing  grain  to  his  face,  kissing  it, 
rubbing  it  between  the  powerful  old  hands. 

"I've  watched  ye  grow,  as  I  hev  her; 
I've  tended  ye,  as  I  hev  her;  I'd  not  let  one  wind 
o'  heaven  hurt  ye,  all  fur  her,  if  I  c'uld  help  it; 
an'  now" — he  flung  away  the  crumbled  remains, 
his  hands  stained  green — "now  I've  got  ter  giv' 
up  to  Natur'  an'  Life,  as  ye've  got  ter  be  cut 
with  th'  reaper!"  His  head  sank  on  his  chest, 
the  long  beard  flowing  low.  "What  for?  Is 
there  a  God  in  heaven?  What  for?"  He 
threw  his  arms  toward  the  bright  overhead. 

The  sun  burst  over  the  horizon  in  a  fierce 
glare  of  power,  gilding  the  vistas  of  wheat,  em 
purpling  the  last  clouds  of  night  that  vanished 
beyond  the  west,  glowing  the  air  with  its  might. 

"Aye,"  he  said,  facing  it,  so  that  the  light 
shone  full  on  his  face,  softening  the  outlines  of 
his  figure.  "Aye,  thar's  the  answer,  an'  it's 
(  29?  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF    A    MATCH 

true — true,  it's  Natur'  in  all  her  glory.  What's 
laws,  what's  anythin'  in  life  but  Natur'?"  He 
went  back,  bathed  in  the  fierce  rays.  When 
nearly  at  the  hut  he  stopped  again. 

The  morning  draught  played  daintily  about 
him,  rustling  the  grasses  at  his  feet,  stirring  his 
beard  and  bushy  eyebrows  with  gentle,  caressing 
softness.  As  far  as  his  eyes  could  reach  were 
fields — acres — miles  upon  miles  of  gorgeous 
splendor  of  wealth.  The  ears  of  wheat  rolled, 
rippled,  bowed,  and  rolled  again  to  the  south 
wind,  changing  hue  from  brilliant  yellow  to 
shadowed  green  at  each  puff. 

"It's  all  mine — mine,"  he  said,  dully,  "but 
what's  the  good?  Money,  aye;  but  money 
don't  buy  all  I  wish  I  culd  giv'  her,  an'  money 
don't  buy  what  I  want — an'  can't  have.  Thar's 
no  room  in  life  for  an  old  man  like  me.  I've 
done  my  best,  an'  'tain't  good  enough  fur  her; 
I  knows  it,  an'  she's  right,  bless  her,  allus  she's 
right;  I'm  wrong,  but  I'll  make  it  squar'  to  her, 
God  helpin'  me." 

She  awoke  as  he  entered. 

"Sammy?" 

"Aye,  Sammy,"  he  answered,  softly. 

"Where've  you  been  so  early?" 
(298) 


THE    LIGHT    OF    A    MATCH 

"Just  seein'  that  th'  grain's  all  right." 

"Is  it?" 

"Fur  ye,  girl,  it's  right  an'  growin',  heapin' 
money  with  every  day's  sun." 

She  winced  in  half  awakedness,  shrinking 
from  his  earnest  tones;  and  now  he  saw  and  was 
glad,  for  he  had  decided. 

"A  bit  o'  bacon? — some  gruel  for  breakfast, 

girl?" 

She  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes;  they  were 
clenched  tight,  and  he  saw  now  that  he  knew 
what  to  look  for.  With  a  strong  heart  he  pre 
tended  that  he  did  not  see. 

"Is  it  going  to  be  hot  again,  Sammy?" 

He  went  to  the  door,  standing  in  the  blister 
ing  light. 

"I'm  afeard  so,   Honey;  but  yon  sun" — he 
looked   almost   straight   into   its   white   heat— 
"gives   us   money,   gives  us" — he   stumbled   in 
search  of  the  word — "life!" 

She  murmured  something,  and  dozed  again 
while  he  got  some  breakfast. 


The  reaping  was  over.     The  crowd  of  men 
had  gone,  and  the  vast  fields  no  longer  rang 

(  299  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

with  the  whirring  of  steel,  the  harsh  champing 
of  toothed  knives,  the  clattering  chatter  of  bind 
ers.  The  year's  work  was  done.  No  hail,  no 
frost,  nothing  had  marred  the  success  of  the 
crop,  and  the  old  man  had  a  long  credit  account 
at  the  bank  in  Brandon.  He  and  his  two  men, 
load  by  load,  took  the  grain  to  the  railway  ele 
vator,  and  watched  it  disappear  in  the  dust- 
funnels.  Then  it  was  all  gone.  Instead  of  the 
waving  wheat-heads  on  stalk  he  had  money — 
gold,  that  he  could  draw  from  the  bank,  for  it 
was  his. 

As  he  milked  one  night,  he  drew  the  bank 
book  from  his  inside  pocket.  It  was  already 
chafed  with  the  continual  carrying. 

"Six  thousand  dollars,"  he  whispered.  "Six 
thousand  dollars !  I'll  take  two  hundred ;  that'll 
get  me  far  away  some'ere  an'  leave  enough  for 
her  an' — him!" 

The  same  familiar  cow  gazed  placidly  at 
him,  whisking  her  rough  tail  with  a  swi-sh — 
swi-sh — swi-sh  that  betokened  annoyance  of  the 
flies.  The  next  day  he  went,  while  the  girl  was 
sewing  at  his  clothes,  to  the  station. 

"Gimme  a  ticket  fur  th'  West." 

"Whereabouts?"  the  agent  asked,  noting  this 
(  300  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

face  more  than  the  others  that  passed  his  little 
window. 

"As  far  as  the  line  goes,"  King  answered, 
slowly. 

The  sound  of  tearing  paper,  the  dull  clack- 
click  of  a  hand-stamp,  then — 

"Here  ye  are;  all  the  way  through  British 
Columbia  to  the  Pacific,  $60.50!" 

The  old  man  paid  his  money  unseeing,  and 
turned  away. 

"Good  for  ten  days  only,"  the  agent  called 
after  him. 

For  nine  of  these  days  he  worked  about  the 
house,  cleaning  up,  straightening  the  farm  im 
plements,  getting  everything  right.  That  night, 
when  the  girl  was  asleep  in  the  cold  of  the  Sep 
tember  frost,  he  went  out,  and  paced  the  de 
serted  fields,  his  feet  crunching  softly  on  the 
crust  of  the  new  earth.  Glittering  eerily,  like 
distant  winking  eyes,  the  stars  shone  on  him, 
and  he  watched  the  flashing  comets  trail  their 
short,  sparkling  course.  The  darkness  was  in 
tensely  silent;  not  even  a  breath  of  wind  dis 
turbed  the  absolute  peace. 

"I'm  goin'  ter-morrow,"  he  said  aloud,  "goin' 
so's  she  kin  live.  Girl,  ef  ye  only  knowed  how 
(  301  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

I  loves  yer !    Honey "    His  voice  broke  and 

quavered.  "But  I'm  old,  old,  old — an'  donel 
Great  God," — he  flung  his  arms  wide — "I  loves 
her  with  a  young  heart,  but  I  cain't  show  it. 
I'm  too  fond  o'  makin'  money  on  th'  land ! 
What  I  kin  do  is  to  giv'  her  all  I  hev — an'  go ; 
an'  I'm  agoin'.  Fred's  a  good  lad,  clean  an' 
honest;  an'  since  she  loves  him,  since  that's  Life, 
I  kin  only  show  my  love  by  this."  He  drew  in 
great  breaths  of  the  night  chill,  and  it  strength 
ened  him. 

****** 

"Come  over  to  the  station  this  mornin', 
Honey;  I  got  business  thar,"  he  said,  at  break 
fast. 

She  wondered  then  why  he  had  on  his  best 
clothes,  patched  and  worn  as  they  were — but 
his  best. 

"Yes,  Sammy,  I'd  like  the  drive,  I  think." 
She  kissed  him.  "Nothing  wrong?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  steadily,  "nuthin' !" 

By  a  coincidence  (that  she  did  not  know) 
Fred  Halson  joined  them,  riding  his  new  cay- 
use,  a  pretty  beast,  full  of  life  and  deviltry. 

"Whar  ye  bound,  Sam?"  he  called  gayly, 
looking  at  the  girl. 

(  302  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 


"Over  to  th'  station,  lad;  come  along." 

Once  there,  he  fastened  the  team  securely  to 
a  fence-post. 

"I'll  go  to  the  store,  Sammy,"  she  said; 
"wait  for  me." 

'Wo,  don't,  girl;  I  may  want  ye." 

She  was  surprised;  but  stayed  willingly. 

"Sam,"  Fred  shouted. 

"What?" 

"If  thar's  anythin'  for  me  on  th'  express, 
take  it  home,  will  ye?  I've  got  to  go  'cross  th' 
road."  He  started  away. 

"Fred!" 

The  young  man  stopped  at  the  unusual  com 
mand  in  the  voice. 

"Wait  a  minute,  will  ye?  Train  '11  be  here 
p'utty  soon,  an'  I  may  need  ye." 

"Oh,  all  right,  Sam;  sure,  ef  I  kin  be  of  any 
use." 

They  walked  up  the  long  platform  together. 
The  old  man  contrived  to  leave  the  girl  and 
the  other,  while  he  went  along  the  raised  boards, 
his  eyes  focusing  themselves  on  the  long  dis 
tance,  to  a  certain  roll  in  the  cold  prairie  where 
he  knew  was  his  home.  The  skies  were  overcast 
and  gray,  chilling  and  repulsive.  No  faint 
(  303  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

gleam  of  sunlight  warmed  his  body,  no  ray  of 
happiness  soothed  the  agony  in  his  heart. 

"For  th'  last  time  I  look  on  ye,  my  lands — 
hers  and  his'n  now.  But  I'm  content,  incause 
she'll  be  happy!" 

To-ot — to-ot,  toot — toot.  Far  away  yet, 
from  the  east,  but  plainly  discernible,  came  the 
whistling  of  the  express;  and  as  he  watched 
toward  the  sound  he  saw  a  thread  of  black  rising 
over  the  prairie;  furling,  folding,  and  dwindling 
away. 

"She's  comin',"  he  whispered,  and  turned 
swiftly  to  the  two  that  waited  side  by  side. 

"Girl!" 

"You're  sick,  Sammy,"  she  said,  quickly,  fear 
fully,  seeing  his  haggard  face  and  eyes  dulled. 

"I  wants  ter  speak  ter  ye  a  minute." 

She  walked  with  him,  the  young  man  wait 
ing. 

"Thar's  no  use" — he  coughed  a  moment  as 
the  rushing  sound  of  iron  wheels  came  to  them 
— "thar's  no  use  in  tryin'  ter  pretend  a  girl  like 
you  can  love  a  rough  old  man  like  me." 

"Sammy!"  she  gasped,  and  stared  in  bewil 
derment. 

"Thar's  no  good  in  it,  girl;  here" — he  pulled 

(304) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

out  his  bank-book,  and  some  papers — "here's 
your  credit — now  at  th'  bank,  an'  here's  th' 
deeds  o'  th'  land!"  He  forced  them  into  her 
hands,  hurrying  on — "I'm  goin',  Honey,  goin' 
out  of  your  life,  that  I  hain't  no  right  to  ruin." 

She  tried  to  interrupt. 

"You've  been  squar'  to  th'  old  man,  an' 
he  kin  appreciate  THAT!"  His  words  were 
drowned  by  the  roar  and  rumble  of  the  long 
train  as  it  came  slowly  to  a  standstill  beside 
them. 

"Sammy!"  she  said,  dully,  the  heroic  thing 
he  was  doing  for  her  numbing  her  mind. 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  the 
whole  of  his  great  love  twisting  his  face  as 
though  in  pain. 

"And  me,  Sammy?    Without  you '      She 

stopped,  his  sacrifice  glaring  into  her  soul.  All 
his  kindness  and  rough  tenderness,  all  his  little 
pathetic  ways,  all  his  honor  and  thoughtfulness, 
rushed  past,  and,  woman-like,  she  weighed  what 
she  was  losing,  and  what  she  might  have  in  the 
future — torn  between  the  two.  "Why,  Sammy? 
Why?  Poor  old  Sammy!"  she  gasped,  seeing 
the  clinched  jaws,  the  muscles  working  spas 
modically  in  his  face. 

(  305  ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

"Incause" — he  spoke  almost  fiercely — "I  saw 
it  all  by  th'  light  o'  a  match." 

She  was  silent,  knowing  then  that  he  knew. 
He  took  her  by  the  hand,  dragged  her  through 
the  crowd  of  tourists,  passengers,  immigrants, 
that  thronged  the  station,  to  where  the  other 
stood. 

"Fred,  lad,  ye'r  honest,  an'  ye  loves  Marthy 
as  a  man  should,  don't  ye?" 

The  other  was  amazed,  dumb  almost. 

"I  do!"  he  answered,  before  he  had  time  to 
think. 

"All  aboard— all  'board!" 

"I  trusts  her  to  ye,  lad,  fur  she  loves  ye,  an' 
kin  show  it  now,  incause  I  gives  my  consent,  an'  ' 
— he  coughed  again  harshly — "my  blessin'. 
Look  arter  her  well,  lad,  as  I  hev';  an'  read  this 
when  I'm  gone!"  He  gave  him  a  sheet  of 
paper,  and  sprang  away. 

Slowly  the  great  wheels  revolved  to  the  spurt 
ing  chug-chug  of  the  engine.  White-jacketed 
porters  closed  the  vestibules  of  the  Pullmans. 
Gradually,  then  faster  and  faster,  the  long  cars 
moved  away;  the  two  gripping  each  other's 
hands  convulsively,  tears  streaming  down  her 
face.  No  sign  of  old  Sam  King.  The  two 
(306) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

watched  the  express  fade  away  to  a  blur  in  the 
west.  She  turned  on  him  then. 

"Are  you  a  man  like  him,  Fred?" 

He  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"He  is  a  man,"  he  whispered.  "I  can  only 
try  to  love  ye  as  he  did !" 

"You'll  have  to  try  hard!"  she  answered, 
softly. 

For  an  instant  then  a  single  ray  of  yellow 
sunlight  forced  its  way  through  the  gray  clouds, 
and  hesitated  weakly  on  the  two;  it  was  gone. 

"Sammy" — she  waved  her  hand  to  the  west 
ward,  along  the  unsympathetic  cold  lines  of 
steel — "ye  didn't  kiss  me  good-by,"  and  the 
tears  rolled  faster. 

"No,  he  didn't,"  the  man  whispered;  "but  I'll 
watch  over  ye !  I  don't  love  the  grain  most!" 

He  opened  the  paper,  and  his  face  became 
soft  with  a  deep  glow  of  feeling. 

"Read  thet,  dear!" 

She  could  distinguish  the  words  but  slowly 
for  her  tears. 

"ye  an  (red  kin  marry  in  tou  weks  I'l  be  out  o'  th  wurld 
then  ye'l  be  hapy  i  gues  an  ets  ryght  ye  shuld  incaus  ye  an 
him  hev  bin  squar  in  this  thing  i  aint  jelous  i  m  hapy  fur  it 

"lovinle 

"  SAM." 
(307    ) 


THE    LIGHT    OF   A    MATCH 

For  a  moment  both  were  silent,  looking  to 
the  west. 

"He  didn't  love  the  grain  most  after  all," 
Fred  whispered,  sadly. 

"I  don't  think  he  did,"  she  answered,  and 
turned  away. 


THE   END 


(308) 


000  121  421     2 


